


The Oracle of Aoba Johsai

by jstudio_18



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Fantasy, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Mattsun and Makki don't like each other very much in the beginning, Mattsun is older, Political Marriage, Slow Build, Some humour, see each chapter for notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-05-25 23:44:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14988125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jstudio_18/pseuds/jstudio_18
Summary: When Aoba Johsai invades his kingdom to fulfil a prophecy, Hanamaki Takahiro trades his freedom for the safety of his people. Matsukawa Issei has vowed to serve his country, but the husband it has chosen for him reminds him too much of a painful past.





	1. Bedtime stories

**Author's Note:**

> Implied dub-con in this chapter

Until a few weeks ago, Takahiro thought the trope of kingdoms going to war over a prospective marriage had long been relegated to legends. It was in the stories his nurse used to tell him when he was a child, like the tale of Suzuran, whose unparalleled beauty had kings and generals squabbling for her attention, or of Pankiemon, who led a campaign against Takahiro’s own ancestors when they refused to dispatch the prince promised to him. Pankiemon was the greatest hero in history, or so the story went, and the Higans opened their gates in shame after sixty days of siege.

 

Maybe, Takahiro contemplated with dry humour, this was a recurring fate in his bloodline. Every now and then his country rejected a perfectly sound marriage proposal and it erupted into war. Takahiro understood why his father had dismissed the Ambassador of Aoba Johsai without a second thought, but if the King had listened to his own nurse’s bedtime stories as attentively as Takahiro had, then he would surely understand that their story could only have one outcome.

 

 

 

The guards were waving a red flag at him, a warning in the dark. Some of them were also shouting, although Takahiro understood naught. He dismounted his horse when he was less than ten yards away and walked the rest. A spear was raised in his direction.

 

“Reveal who you are and state your business,” said the soldier with the spear in practiced Higan. He looked young, not much older than Takahiro, with the beginnings of stubble on his chin.

 

Instead of an answer, Takahiro reached into his pockets—more spears were raised—and threw a coin to no one in particular.

 

A different soldier caught it. Then someone else still brought a torch and the guards examined the coin in silence, turning it carefully in the light. It began in low murmurs, fast and staccato, a string of alien sounds in Takahiro’s ears. He waited, the navy hood blending him almost seamlessly into the night.

 

“Please follow me,” a voice addressed him. Takahiro raised his head and saw a tall man. Short black hair, parted in the middle, with matching dark eyes. Quiet. Maybe in his mid-twenties. The man was wearing a turquoise cloak, of finer material than worn by those who had parted to make way for him.

 

“This way,” he urged when Takahiro did not move. The spears had already returned to their original positions. Takahiro swallowed, waited some more, then followed him.

 

They entered a tent, its drapes embroidered with the same silver leaves that adorned the man’s cloak. Two large wooden chests were stacked in the middle, no doubt to be used as a desk, with a pair of smaller cases flanking the pile. Behind the makeshift furniture lay a long but narrow bed, covered by an embroidered turquoise blanket. Takahiro huffed. There had to be colours other than turquoise and silver, even in the mountains of Aoba Johsai.

 

Before Takahiro could begin his taunt, however, the man turned to him. The gold coin caught light in his exposed palm.

 

“Where did you get this?” the man enquired.

 

Takahiro frowned. The coin had the royal insignia on one side, a single red spider lily, and the king’s signature along with a specific set of numbers on the other: his birthdate.

 

“That,” he replied calmly, “is mine.”

 

“You mean to claim,” the man sounded just as composed. “that you are Hanamaki Takahiro, the fourth son of the King of Higan.”

 

“How dare you doubt me?” Takahiro took off his hood, then felt foolish for doing so because this foreigner surely did not know what he looked like.

 

Or perhaps he did, judging by the way he had gone completely pale. After all, Takahiro mused, there were not many that could fake his complexion.

 

But the Aoba Johsai remained impenetrable. “Forgive me for saying this, but anyone's capable of theft.”

 

“That,” Takahiro considered. He could not chide the man for something as reasonable as that. “I accept. Shall I strip, then, so that you may see for yourself?”

 

He half expected the man to back down or, at the very least, to summon someone more suited the undressing. The other did neither, merely shaking his head, and said: “Your shoulder will suffice.”

 

So they knew where his tattoo was. That the royals of Higan received tattoos as a mark of their adulthood was no secret, but for an outsider to know their whereabouts was more than concerning. Takahiro wondered if they knew about the other members of his family as he shed his cloak and shirt.

 

Once he was done, Takahiro drew himself to full height, which he judged to be a few inches above the man’s head. Higan nights were cold even in summer; he could not help but tremble. Behind him, he could hear the man approaching him with slow, careful steps.

 

“You really are him,” the man said after a moment, sounding odd as though he were speaking to himself.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

“You will lay with him, of course,” said Oikawa in that consistently—and obnoxiously—sweet voice of his.

 

Matsukawa fought off the urge to roll his eyes and settled for crossing his arms over the chest. “I will most certainly not,” he replied in the sternest voice he could muster.

 

The two of them were sitting side by side, Matsukawa on his throne of a pine tree and with Oikawa to his right. If Oikawa’s throne lacked the extravagance and size of his friend’s, it went hardly noticed in the shadow of the man’s extraordinary beauty. His face no longer shone with youthful innocence at twenty-seven, but the soft, large hazel eyes and easy smile from their childhood had matured into irresistible charisma and confidence. At times, Matsukawa suspected that Oikawa might have made a better leader than him, only to remember that the Oracle had chosen him and that the Oracle of Aoba Johsai was never wrong.

 

Even now. The Oracle he received two months before had to be the most inconceivable of them yet, instructing him to seek the hand of a Higan prince in marriage. Aoba Johsai and Higan were distant neighbours, separated by a chain of mountains, but had had little exchange up till then. The Higans were inclined to disdain the Aoba Johsai, of course, for the preposterous but fundamental reason that they were a far more ancient people. _A descendant of the Sun God_ , the letter had read, _did not mingle with a mountain mongrel_. Matsukawa supposed history had indeed treated the Higans kindly, consolidating their unwavering view of themselves as the chosen people, and envied the lush fields and the seemingly unending supply of precious stones that the Kingdom was known for.

 

But the tides had to have changed for Matsukawa’s troops to have crossed the alps in twelve days and laid siege to the capital in less than three weeks. Now the prince was supposedly here, being prepared for possibly the shortest wedding in history, while Matsukawa tried to hang onto the last shreds of self-determination.

 

“Oh, but you will,” Oikawa was saying. “It’s your wedding.”

 

“It can wait, surely,” he insisted. “At least until I know him better.”

 

“You have bedded strangers before.”

 

“With the knowledge that they would be gone by the morning.”

 

“Arrangements can be made, your Excellency,” Oikawa said lightly. They rarely used honorifics when left alone and Matsukawa briefly considered tackling him to the ground. Instead, he shifted his weight so his body leaned as far away as possible from his friend.

 

Oikawa laughed.

 

“But you really do have to, my dear Mattusn. It is the only way the Higans will acknowledge your marriage. You see, liaisons outside wedlock are highly dishonourable and honour is everything for them. Lay with the prince and they will have to accept you, whether they like you or not. Then we can draw up a treaty, get it signed by tomorrow evening, and depart before dawn.”

 

Matsukawa covered his eyes with a hand. It was late and he really needed to be in bed. “He’s a child.”

 

“He’s nineteen,” said Kunimi as he entered the tent, followed by a nervous-looking Kindaichi at his heels. “and as tall as you.”

 

Oikawa made a surprised sound next to him. Matsukawa agreed. His people were known for being tall; their neighbours, not so much.

 

Now his irritation turned towards Kunimi. Matsukawa studied the younger man, who levelled his scowl with a characteristically unperturbed gaze. “Only nineteen.”

 

“You were made General when you were nineteen.”

 

“That is different. I was raised to be one.”

 

“He was raised a fourth son, a convenient chess piece,” Kunimi replied without heat, running a hand through his dark hair. “That the Higans failed to see the strategic importance of our alliance is unfortunate, but at least he knows his duties.”

 

“Which is why he came here,” Oikawa added lightly.

 

Matsukawa set up, fingers dancing rhythmically on the throne. He had been on battlefields since he could recall, first as an orphan in the bloodbath, then as a page when his foster father adopted him, climaxing at his grand victory several years ago. In spite of all that glory, though, he never did find joy in war. It was nevertheless expected of him to serve the Oracle and to lead his people into safety, and that he did. Since the Oracle had prophesied that he would acquire a spouse in the kingdom of Higan and not its downfall, Matsukawa was more than happy to comply with the wedding if it meant an earlier return home.

 

But to bed a stranger, and a young one at that… only the Oracle could make it happen, he realised.

 

“I still don’t like it,” Matsukawa said, waving his hand in the air. “Iwaizumi would never have approved of this.”

 

“Or of your harem,” Kunimi muttered under his breath.

 

Matsukawa shot him a dirty look, then echoed his words inside his head. The tent had gone very still, even Kindaichi’s eyes. He slowly averted his attention back to Oikawa, who was looking at something on the other side of the tent.

 

“Unfortunately,” Oikawa cut him off before he could apologize. “Iwa-chan is no longer with us, so we’ll have to do without his approval.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Yahaba was waiting for him outside. The young lord fitted Matsukawa in his ceremonial robe, a fine cut in turquoise with silver stars cascading towards its end.

 

“I gather the prince is ready,” Matsukawa inquired, accepting a pair of gloves laced with white fur.

 

“He is,” Yahaba answered quickly, then hesitated. “Sir, I…”

 

“What is it?”

 

“We should go,” Kunimi called, holding the entrance of the tent where the ceremony would take place. Pools of light were radiating from inside and Matsukawa could catch a glimpse of another turquoise-clad figure moving about in the distance. His future consort. The last time he had walked the aisle, he recalled with a bitter taste in his mouth, it had not ended fortuitously.

 

 _That was five years aago_ , he reminded himself and willed his legs to take him forward. It was by pure chance that his men had captured a priest yesterday—the Higans would have the vows exchanged in their tradition and find little fault with the ceremony, even if they were absent from it.

 

“I suppose…,” Matsukawa looked across his friends. “Tooru, will you be the witness?”

 

Oikawa startled at his childhood name, then joined him at the entrance with a bright smile. “I cannot believe you had to ask. Of course I should be the witness to your wedding.”

 

“Well, thank you,” he murmured.

 

When they were young, Matsukawa was determined to never bother with marriage because he could not think of a single person who looked at him or made him look in the same way Oikawa and Iwaizumi had looked at each other. If they had married— If Iwaizumi had lived, he wondered, would he be standing here now? What bizarre fate had led him over the mountains, he would never know.

 

He let Oikawa take his arm and lead them into the tent. The furniture had been cleared, leaving the ground bare and smoothed for kneeling. A row of small lamps from the poles cast shadows much bigger than their actual forms. At the far of the tent stood the Higan priest, a graying man in his late forties or early fifties, resting a leather book in his hands. Before him, a lone figure was already kneeling on the ground. The prince of Higan had changed into the same turquoise robe as Matsukawa’s.

 

“No.” He heard Oikawa hold his breath beside him. The grip on his arm tightened. In confusion, Matsukawa tore his eyes off the blinding cascade of stars and focused his gaze on the prince.

 

For a moment, he was back in the Grand Hall of Aoba Johsai. Five years younger, tripping on his own robes that Kindaichi could not suppress his laughter. He was light-headed, he had insisted, after a night of perfecting his vows, but that had done little to ameliorate his friends’ glee. Then there had been Jun, a hand stretched out in anticipation for his at the end of the aisle.

 

As the prince did now. A pair of green eyes peered up at Matsukawa, the youngish face slightly tilted, just as he remembered it. He felt sick.

 

“Issei,” Oikawa was whispering in his ears. “Issei, snap out of it.”

 

Matsukawa’s hand shot to his face and met the rough patch of skin. No blood came off on his gloved hand. He nodded, just enough for his friend to see.

 

“Shall we begin?” the priest offered, eyes darting between the General of Aoba Johsai and his second-in-command.

 

They now parted ways, Matsukawa lowering himself down to his knees while Oikawa shuffled to stand a few feet away from the priest. He took the prince’s outstretched hand in his and thanked the gods that they were both covered in gloves. Without delay, the priest began chanting from the book. Matsukawa’s grip of the Higan language was not as strong as he would have liked, but he could understand much of the blessings and virtues his distant neighbours had installed in marriage.

 

“‘My days shall rise and end with yours hereafter,’” the priest was dictating. Matsukawa followed absent-mindedly, not fully hearing or comprehending the words.

 

“‘And all your joys and sorrows will be mine,’” the prince spoke for the first time, echoing the priest’s words. His voice was deep, surprisingly so.

 

“‘For fate has bound us,’” Matsukawa kissed his husband’s hand.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

When the newly-weds emerged from the ceremony, all the eyes of the gathered fell on Hanamaki Takahiro, formerly a prince of Higan, now consort to their General. The shock was written all over their faces, Matsukawa could tell even without looking at them. Even Kyoutani, who had a permanent scowl plastered to his face, stared in disbelief. Only Kunimi kept his composure, the sneaky bastard.

 

“I wish you both a good night,” said Oikawa as he left the pair in their makeshift tent for the night.

 

Matsukawa’s hands flew to the nearest wine bottle. He drained one and grabbed another. This was going to need a lot of alcohol in his system.

 

A pair of feet padded past him. With a side glance, Masukawa found that the prince had taken his boots off and was placing them beside the bed. Their eyes met. Up close, if under the dim, wavering light of a single lamp, Hanamaki really did look like _him_. Light brown hair, with an impossible touch of pink; thin eyebrows arched upwards, housing a pair of green eyes that varied their depth at different times of the day. The thin lips were drawn together now, devoid of emotion, but Matsukawa already knew they could blossom into full laughter when given the chance. Thought it was not what they necessarily called a pretty face as Oikawa’s had been at that age, it was fine-featured and almost alluring.

 

“No knife? That is a surprise,” Matsukawa heard himself say, swaying and catching his balance.

 

Hanamaki flushed, probably at the lack of preamble, and retorted just as tersely: “What for?”

 

“Political marriages do not always end well or for that matter, begin well,” Matsukawa shrugged. The wine was swirling in his stomach. “I am sure you also have stories of maidens slicing their husbands’ throats on wedding nights in Higan.”

 

“I would never,” the other flushed deeper. “I came to you in peace. Is this how the Aoba Johsai show their honour?”

 

Laughter began to rise in his throat. Maybe it was just the face, after all. Matsukawa took a step forward, then another, until his tall shadow towered over Hanamaki. The younger man looked up at him in defiance, but fear had followed anger into his eyes. Matsukawa gently stroked his cheek, hand still gloved, and pressed his lips to the other’s ears. “I killed two of your brothers,” he whispered. “And I hear a cousin is fighting for his last seconds as we speak. Took you long enough to come crawling to me, however that defines your honour.”

 

Matsukawa watched in cruel satisfaction as all colours drained away from Hanamaki’s face save for the red rim around his eyes. He was right, of course he was, the prince was too young. Too young to have war thrown in your name, to have all that innocent lives on your conscience. If he had been less drunk, Matsukawa might have apologised. But he was angry, betrayed, and, truthfully, a bit scared, and wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around that slender neck.

 

He reined his thoughts in. Hanamaki was sobbing silently, the green orbs glistening in the lamplight. Matsukawa put down the bottle on the ground and knelt in front of him.

 

“I still consider this a misfortune on my part,” he began, “I hear your younger siblings are quite beautiful.”

 

As soon as the words left his mouth, there was a sound of bone hitting bone. Matsukawa stared at the ceiling of the tent for a few seconds, processing the pain in his chin, and set up. So the boy had a wrist on him.

 

“You _bastard_ ,” Hanamaki was seething. As Kunimi had observed, he was incredibly tall for his age and Matsukawa could see that the prince might even grow taller than him in a few years. Unfortunately for Hanamaki, he had just entered adulthood. Matsukawa caught the second fist with ease and, hooking his arms under the younger man’s, hauled his husband onto the bed.

 

“Stay still,” he ordered amidst the cursing and kicking. Hanamaki had a foul mouth, he noted, and that interestingly extended beyond his knowledge of the language.

 

The silver pin that held Hanamaki’s robe together bent under his hands. Yahaba was not going to be happy about it, but Matsukawa could care less. He did hope, though, that they had extra clothing as he ripped the Higan silk.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

“He’s sleeping,” Matsukawa explained. Oikawa, sporting a rare pair of bags under his eyes, sighed in relief. The man looked as though he had not slept a wink.

 

“I thought you might have killed him,” his friend rubbed circles into his temples. “Is he all right? Are _you_ all right?”

 

“I’m _fine_ ,” he replied with emphasis. When a squire appeared with their breakfast, he ordered the boy to arrange an attire for his consort. Oikawa pouted disapprovingly.

 

“You didn’t beat him, did you?” he asked when the squire left. “Mattsun, I know it must be difficult for you, but—”

 

Matsukawa glared at him. “No, I did not beat him. What kind of a man do you take me for?”

 

A silence. Then a sigh. “Forgive me. I was insolent.”

 

“Forgiven.” He pushed his plates away and stood up. Oikawa rose with him, searching his face. “He needs to be in our clothes now that he is one of us.”

 

“Naturally.”

 

“Naturally. I,” he paused when the drapes were lifted and Kunimi came in. He was neatly presented as always, in a white shirt and trousers in the matching colour that looked freshly laundered. As the young man approached, Matsukawa suddenly became aware of the blowing of the horns outside.

 

“The King of Higan is here,” Kunimi reported in a tone that could have also said, ‘your meal is ready’. He peered behind him. “Not literally outside your tent, but close enough.”

 

“Thank you, Kunimi-chan. I wish you would have informed us earlier,” Oikawa sighed for the third time.

 

Kunimi looked bored.

 

Matsukawa cleared his throat. “Why don’t you go greet him, Oikawa, I’ll be there after I discuss some matters with Kunimi.”

 

Once he was gone, Matsukawa extended his hand.

 

“You neglected to tell me a small piece of information yesterday,” he said after Kunimi had knelt and kissed his ring.

 

“I thought you might not agree to proceed with the ceremony if you knew.” Kunimi always spoke with honesty regardless of its nature. It was one of the qualities Matsukawa appreciated in the younger man, but sometimes it bore him endless frustration.

 

The slap landed harsher than he intended. Matsukawa flinched inwardly and turned Kunimi’s face back towards him. If his subordinate could take this without so much as a blink of the eye, then he could, and should, as well. “Next time, you will not make such decisions for me. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, your Excellency.”

 

Matsukawa and Kunimi left Oikawa’s tent together, by which a handful of men had gathered. Only his personal guards would be allowed to keep their weapons during the signing of the treaty.

 

Running his practiced gaze over them, Matsukawa’s thoughts wandered off to the revered King of Higan. A legendary hero in his youth—who single-handed reunited the kingdom his father and uncles had disbanded—and a resolute king in his twilight years, having kept a strong hold on peace of most of his long reign. Although Aoba Johsai had been doing most of the conquering in the continent for decades, it had no attention of subjugating the usually impenetrable Higan to its rule. A peace treaty, forged through the marriage, and perhaps an establishment of trade routes by the sea. If they so wished (and the Aoba Johsai expected them to), Higans would even maintain advantages. Matsukawa felt his moods lighten significantly. Yet another campaign concluded successfully. Now he could return home.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Higan and Aoba Johsai clothing were none too different, Takahiro knew. From what he had heard, his people wore dresses more often and the mountain people of Aoba Johsai were more accustomed to trousers for the ease of movement. The most noticeable difference, he observed, was likely that of their colour schemes: the Higans enjoyed a colourful palette, never shy of strong shots of canary yellow or blazing red, while their distant cousins seemed to favour muted turquoise and silver. Takahiro had yet to make his mind up on turquoise, but right now it was the colour the squire boy had brought for him to wear.

 

He did his best alone, slinging his arms under the light grey shirt followed by a turquoise tunic over it. When a different squire entered, he fussed over Takahiro’s belt, untying and tying it again into a perfect bow. Takahiro breakfasted on white bread and berries the boy had brought and watched him shine his boots.

 

“Cow see,” the boy said in Higan when he was one.

 

Takahiro arched an eyebrow. “What?”

 

“Cow see?” he tried again, sounding unsure of himself. The squire waved his arms towards the far end of the tent.

 

“Am I to follow you?” Takahiro offered, only to be met with drooping eyes. They clearly could not understand each other.

 

He rose anyway and walked to where the drapes gathered to form the entrance and exit of the tent. It had to be what the boy meant because he quickly followed Takahiro and held the heavy canvas for him.

 

Takahiro thanked him and waited for his eyes to adjust to the sun before stepping outside. The ground was trembling lightly. When he heard the blow of horns he recognised, with a start, that it had to be his father. He wondered who had been the first to find his letter, tucked under his pillow back at the castle. Perhaps his nurse, the gentle, kindred woman he did not think he would ever have the heart to dismiss, or his younger sister Kaede, who he had promised to take out for a ride in the gardens.

 

“Ant you comb night?” the squire asked in alarm when he saw drops of water wetting the ground at Takahiro’s feet.

 

Takahiro laughed. It was horrible. There was not a single part of his body that did not ache from last night, the brute, and he had just remembered that it was more than three weeks of riding on horseback to Aoba Johsai. Through the mountains, as it were. “Yes, I’m fine,” he managed in the end.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Watching the aged king wobble towards his child, Matsukawa realised, with guilt sinking in, why the Higans had rejected his proposal. Hanamaki was loved, fourth son or not, and the sudden separation from him had devastated the old man.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Take a lover,” he suggested. Hanamaki turned to him, eyes wide.
> 
>  
> 
> “I beg your pardon?”
> 
>  
> 
> “You heard what I said. It will make your life here less miserable.”
> 
>  
> 
> There was exasperation in the other’s voice. “What is wrong with you? What kind of a husband tells his own husband to outright have an affair?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of typos and errors probably... will be edited soon.

After two days of trudging on horseback, Takahiro swallowed his pride and requested to be put in a wagon. It was by no means luxurious, having been intended for the wounded, but it was spacious enough for him to turn clockwise if he got bored of staring up at the ceiling from one angle. Thankfully, the Aoba Johsai took turns to visit and entertain him. Introductions and re-introductions were made.

 

The tall, quiet man he had shown his tattoo to was Kunimi, the Secretary to the General. Kunimi never raised his voice, speaking in a muted but steady tone, and seemed to be knowledgeable in just about everything—the different breeds of horses and dogs, the history of the continent in the past few decades, and even the latest fashion at Shiratorizawa court. Takahiro quite liked him, his intellect and observations, and felt his moods rather dampen when Kunimi did not come to the wagon for more than a day. The man also managed Higan like a native, which meant he became the one to teach Takahiro about the Aoba Johsai culture and language.

 

Kindaichi, thus far the tallest of the Aoba Johsai he had seen, was a knight and in charge of the arms. Compared to Kunimi, whom he seemed to shadow almost everywhere, Kindaichi was difficult to talk to—not because he did not speak the Higan language well, but because he was inflicted with shyness. He still tried, answering Takahiro’s questions as faithfully as he could, and blushed profusely when the former prince of Higan complimented him.

 

There were two more, a pair of a sort like Kunimi and Kindaichi. One looked younger than Takahiro, though he was informed that the most of the Aoba Johsai present were older. Soft, light brown curls framed a triangular face that had not yet shed the plumpness of youth. Takahiro remembered him, and his doe-like light brown eyes, as the man who had brought him the turquoise cloak for the ceremony. His name was Yahaba, another knight of senior status than Kindaichi. When Takahiro was in the wagon, however, neither Yahaba nor his partner came to see him.

 

“Kyoken-chan and Yahaba-chan are staying behind to ensure the Treaty is upheld,” Oikawa was explaining to him.

 

Takahiro viewed the man before him warily. Oikawa was by far one of the most beautiful people he had ever seen, but the man had such peculiar habits that eclipsed even his face. Namely, the endearments he attached at the end of people’s names along with the nicknames. The most ghastly of them all, Takahiro shivered, was “Mattsun”, intended for his husband.

 

But Takahiro steeled himself to not think about that man. Not now.

 

“Which part of the Treaty?” he enquired, leaning on a cushion. It was upholstered in turquoise silk, of course, with intricate patterns of silver flowers.

 

“The coastal trade,” Oikawa offered him a plate of dried fruits. “We feared the war may have exhausted your father’s resources, so their men will also be positioned at the northern borders to assist in case of raids."

 

Takahiro chewed on an apricot, an endless pit descending in his belly. His father’s lords were bound to resent the arrangement. If only their king had not rejected that proposal—he was only a fourth son. Now their sons were dead, leaving _their_ sons to grow fatherless, and foreign men were swarming the borders.

 

“Tell me more about Aoba Johsai,” Takahiro pushed his thoughts away. “What exactly is the Oracle?”

 

Oikawa’s eyes lit up. “The Oracle,” he gestured with his hands, signs Takahiro saw but did not comprehend. “is what makes Aoba Johsai. It is our law and light. The Oracle tests us and guides us through its tests. Whatever the Oracle speaks, it shall be.”

 

Takahiro gawked at him. “I think I need a translator. Call Kunimi.”

 

“Apologies, your Excellency!” the beautiful man laughed. “It sounds vague, I know. We grow up knowing it, so it is not always easy to explain. I suppose that if one were to describe it, it would be as thus: the Oracle sits at the highest peak of the highest mountain in Aoba Johsai. It is inside a small marble temple, its columns interlaced with turquoise drapes or the Gates of Fate, as we call them. The graver your question, the deeper you enter the temple. No one dares enter the final Gate, less an immediate death befall him.”

 

“But what if the Oracle has not answered your question?”

 

“You must still turn back,” came the reply, smooth and rehearsed. “for it will be a question that the Oracle cannot answer.”

 

“The Oracle does not have an answer to everything?”

 

“The Oracle answers,” Oikawa said generously, as though Takahiro had asked a most basic question. “when there is an answer to be given.”

 

A silence fell between them. Oikawa looked content, having enlightened the prince of the mighty Oracle, and happily fussed over Takahiro’s cushion. Sandwiched between two plumped turquoise cushions, then more, Takahiro felt overwhelmed and uncomfortable. Higan was not a particularly religious kingdom, though they venerated their ancestors.

 

He glanced up at his visitor’s tawny head. “What question did you ask to get to me?”

 

Oikawa's smile fell. “I do not know,” the man answered uncertainly. “The General needed a Consort, but the candidates did not satisfy him. It was a member of the Council who went to the Oracle.”

 

“The Council?”

 

The Aoba Johsai nodded quickly. “The Council advises the General. We are not a monarchy like Higan; Mattsun would never exercise the same authority as your father’s. Let us say that the Karasuno raided our northernmost borders. Mattsun notifies the Council of his plans, which they deliberate and returns to him with approval or modifications. The final verdict lies with the General, but he is highly advised to proceed with the Council’s suggestion.”

 

Although Takahiro could not pretend to have been a diligent student, he was sure he had not learned about this type of … management that he could not even put a name to. The Aoba Johsai were a peculiar people, he reckoned.

 

He opened his mouth to ask another question, maybe about Oikawa’s family, when a sharp tap bounced off the wooden walls of the wagon. With his assent, the small opened sideways to reveal a young knight’s face.

 

“We have stopped for the night,” he informed in Aoba Johsai, which Takahiro felt a surge of pride to have understood.

 

“Tell them to make my tent,” Takahiro told Oikawa in his own tongue. His visitor nodded.

 

 

 

* * *

 

Lying in the dark, Takahiro found himself thinking about Matsukawa Issei. It was difficult to imagine the man as his husband, even inside his head. For one, they had not exchanged a word since their wedding night. Matsukawa had been gone in the morning, the sheets cold and slightly wrinkled; they ate separately and slept in a separate tent. When their eyes happened to meet, Matsukawa merely nodded in recognition. Takahiro was not sure how he felt about the General’s indifference to him. He knew he did not crave for the man’s company, but also knew he would not love spending the rest of his life in years of solitude.

 

_Well,_ he contemplated rather ruefully. _It’s not like I have someone to ask about how political marriages usually go._

 

_Not well,_ Matsukawa had said. Specifically, in the beginning, or in the end. Takahiro gruntled. As far as he had been able to gather, this was the older man’s first political marriage as well.

 

Takahiro turned the rest of the words Matsukawa had uttered to him in his head, assessing their rudeness, and reliving how much they had hurt. Perhaps a life lived in absolute solitude was beginning to sound tolerable after all.

 

“Move over,” said a gruff voice.

 

Takahiro almost shrieked. Stuffing his mouth with a hand before he did so, he retreated to the far end of the bed and glowered at the shadow in the dark.

 

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

 

“Going to sleep,” Matsukawa returned. He had brought his own pillow.

 

“What? Why?” When there was no answer: “ _Why?_ ”

 

The older man could not have sounded more annoyed. “They think it would be better if the men were to see us leave the tent together.”

 

Worry began to cloud over him. Takahiro could smell wine on the other, even from the end of the bed, and was reminded of their last night together. It was his duty, he knew, and he would not refuse if Matsukawa sought him, but the entire affair had been insufferable.

 

Matsukawa must have noticed his nervousness because he added, less coarsely: “I need you back on horseback from tomorrow on. We are in Aoba Johsai now and people will want to see you.”

 

“Do you always drink for bed?” Takahiro asked when he was back in the sheets, letting curiosity take over. His husband ignored him and went to sleep.

 

 

 

* * *

 

Takahiro had always known that his complexion was rare—pinkish hair, really—but had never generated the amount of disbelief he did now in the eyes of the Aoba Johsai.

 

They were both on horseback, the General and he, the rest of their entourage riding or on foot behind them. Flags were raised, silver leaves on turquoise, and the sounds of drums and horns echoed throughout the streets of the capital of Aoba Johsai. Occasionally, little children broke from the crowd that had gathered on either side of the procession and placed single flowers on the ground—all the while affixing their eyes on Takahiro. He shifted, took a casual glance above the unfamiliar faces, and grabbed his reins a bit tighter.

 

He leaned over to Matsukawa and asked, “Why are they looking at me like that?”

 

The dark-haired man’s eyes flickered to the people. “They are looking at us, not you alone.”

 

“No, I meant,” he tried again. “Some of them stare. I feel watched.”

 

Matsukawa turned to face him. Takahiro thought he looked both regal and melancholic, the way his thick eyebrows slanted to meet sharp grey eyes. The General appeared older than he was, an impression perhaps worsened by the scar that ran vertically through the right side of his face, though he also emitted balanced power and serenity, awaiting for fires to be ignited. 

 

“It’s your complexion,” the man was saying. “Your hair. Quite rare here.”

 

“I know it is.” Takahiro was finding the answer more and more jaded. “But people at the border did not seem so bothered by it.”

 

“The people at the capital are more invested in war, I suppose. They are curious about the face that caused one.”

 

Seeing the way the young man’s face darkened, Matsukawa almost wished he had kept silent. He gently held him by the elbow to find his hand pushed away.

 

“I did not mean it like that,” he amended.

 

“You think it, though, don’t you?” Takahiro blinked rapidly, trying to focus his gaze on a grand building ahead on a hilltop. “I caused the war. People died because of me. It wasn’t enough, I wasn’t quick enough.”

 

“It is not your fault,” Matsukawa slowed his horse so he could fall back in line with the other. This time, Takahiro did not repel his touch. “You fulfilled your duty. Never feel sorry for it.”

 

The onlookers cheered louder when the General kissed his consort, tender and sweet. A gush of wind took the streets from the south. Flower petals that had settled to the ground rose en masse, creating a giant swirl of white and scarlet. It danced over the horses, over the horns, and kept on dancing before a few of them landed on the turquoise and the rest dissipated.

 

Taking Takahiro’s face in his hand, Matsukawa rubbed the tears away with his gloved thumb. His mind brought him back to a time as a child, when he was playing alone in the garden. A bee had climbed onto his hand from a flower. It stung.

 

 

* * *

 

Matsukawa was not drunk on his second wedding night. He would have liked to be, but an Aoba Johsai wedding commenced in a hall and concluded in bedsheets. That was to say, at least one person was invariably present with him and his consort throughout the ceremony. Five, at the moment, counting the servant who held the candle whilst others undressed the newlyweds. Each pin was taken off with care, harming neither the wearer nor the clothing, and the cloaks were folded neatly. Matsukawa raised one leg halfway up for the boots, then the other. He waved the servants away when he was down to a simple white undershirt and trousers, and lifted the bedcover. Hanamaki followed him not long after.

 

The doors shut tightly without a click.

 

Both of them were still. They were lying in a four poster bed, housed by a wooden canopy and a set of turquoise curtains. Despite it being the wedding bed, it was not much larger than the beds they had in their separate chambers to allow for intimacy.

 

It was Matsukawa who broke the silence. “So,” he began.

 

Hanamaki peered at him, his face silver in the moonlight. “So?”

 

“It would be best to clarify this as early as possible,” he continued. “I’m not going to have sex with you.”

 

Another silence followed. The other seemed both relieved and concerned.

 

“Am I entitled to inquire why?” asked Hanamaki after a while.

 

He shrugged, eyes tracing the elaborate patterns of the canopy. So far, he felt confidently calm.  “Why should we? There’s no love between us.”

 

“Agreed. You’ve been nothing but horrid.”

 

He let himself chuckle. “I believe you said much more awful things in Higan.”

 

“You deserved it.”

 

Hanamaki shifted, adjusting under the blanket, and lied on his side, facing away from him. The movement caught his eye and Matsukawa could make out the lines of his shoulders in the dark. Sharp and angular where the arms began and, for all the pretenses of adulthood, still young. He thought about the unscarred body from the other night, with beginnings of muscles but none hardened from a fight. At fifteen, he had earned his own armour; he doubted that the Higan King would have allowed his favourite son at the same age to suffer through the vigorous training of knighthood.

 

Did he envy that life? Matsukawa did not think so. Serving his country was what made him feel truly alive. He also knew he did not despise a different kind of life, however complicated Hanamaki was to him.

 

“Take a lover,” he suggested. Hanamaki turned to him, eyes wide.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“You heard what I said. It will make your life here less miserable.”

 

There was exasperation in the other’s voice. “What is wrong with you? What kind of a husband tells his own husband to outright have an affair?”

 

“Let us say, for now, a benevolent one. You will not be left wanting, either, with your hair.”

 

“And what makes you assume I would even seek an affair, if I may?”

 

“Don’t be so uptight about it. Everyone does it. Even you won’t be able to defend Higan in this, not if you are being completely truthful.”

 

Hanamaki opened his mouth then closed it. Clearly, he was right.

 

“Eventually, you would have taken a lover,” Matsukawa said. “Now you have my blessing.”

 

“I might have enjoyed a small piece of adventure, not knowing when I would get caught, don’t you think?”

 

“I do have a few conditions,” he moved on, pretending he had not heard. “Do not jeopardize your position for it. That includes making it so obvious that the Council feels pressed to get involved. Or begetting a child. I will not tell you to fall in love but if you do, do not conspire for a divorce because you will get none.”

 

“You’re making it sound like a challenge,” Hanamaki complained.

 

“This is no game.” Grey eyes locked with green. “Unless you lack a sense of self-preservation.”

 

A moment or two passed. Matsukawa felt slightly light-headed, probably from all the riding and standing upright. His consciousness was beginning to drift away when a soft voice whispered: “Why do you care?”

 

It was a question he himself had yet to find the answer. Perhaps because he did not want another war on his conscience. Perhaps because he did not another _him_  on his conscience. Both were the kind of answers that could not be articulated. Instead, Matsukawa turned to the opposite side and told the other to go to sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

“Why don’t we lunch together,” Matsukawa had said during breakfast. “Afterwards, I’ll have Kindaichi give you a tour of the castle.”

 

Takahiro studied his new closet, put together by a team of tailors he did not recall meeting. A couple was from Higan, including the navy cloak that he had worn to sneak out of the castle and the white gown with gold embroidery his father had brought as a parting gift. He turned the fine silk in his hand, inwardly lamenting their fates in this turquoise-obsessed Aoba Johsai. Maybe he could devise a plan to usurp the fashion here. After all, Kunimi had explained that the General Consort—that was Hanamaki—would oversee parts of the entertainment at court.

 

Three robes were outstretched on the upholstered chair when the servant announced Oikawa’s arrival. Takahiro did his best not to skip.

 

“I hope you had a restful night,” Oikawa said as he entered the chamber with a knowing smile. His eyes immediately travelled over to the robes. “Are these for this afternoon?” he asked.

 

“Possibly,” Takahiro replied, eyeing the closet. “I imagine you know what he likes best.”

 

“I would not necessarily say that,” Oikawa said humbly. “but I am aware that he quite prefers shorter sleeves over long. A hint of the wrist, if you know what I mean.”

 

“I did not, but now I will never forget it,” he murmured, pink rising to his cheeks.

 

Oikawa ran a careful hand over the other two, his delicate forehead wrinkled in deep thought. “These are both exquisite clothing, whichever commands your attention more. I take it Mattsun performed well?”

 

Takahiro dropped the robe he had intended to return to the closet. He knew that Matsukawa and Oikawa were old friends, almost equal in status, and he supposed the latter’s friendship extended to him because of that, but he was not sure if he could discuss his love life in the open, nonexistent or not.

 

“We— actually— didn’t,” he managed. Oikawa cocked his head to one side. “He said he wouldn’t. In the future as well, I mean. Because we don’t have feelings for each other.”

 

“That,” Oikawa coughed rather conspicuously. “actually sounds like him.”

 

Humming in agreement, though he did not yet know the man as well as the other did, Takahiro searched through the closet once more. His hand paused over a green one, sleeves shorter than most, fitted with a gold coiled belt. Upon closer inspection, its smooth surface seemed to have been embroidered over in a shade darker. Takahiro pulled it out and held it up to his neck.

 

“He told me to find a lover in the meanwhile,” he reminisced. He still did not know what to make of the conversation or of the man who had generated great consternation in him. Thus far, the only thing he could say about Matsukawa with certainty was that the man was less predictable than he had imagined. He continued, jokingly. “Said I wouldn’t have problems with my hair. Do you also find it likeable, Oikawa? Would you take me to bed?”

 

Oikawa did not answer.

 

“I was joking, you know,” Takahiro turned, still holding the robe to his body, and sought the other. Oikawa was where he had been, by the upholstered chair. But his eyes were enlarged, fixed on Takahiro with an unreadable expression.

 

“Oikawa?” he called.

 

“I. Oh, so sorry.” Startled, Oikawa began collecting the robes from the chair. “If you don’t mind, I suggest something other than green. Mattsun does not care for the colour.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

After more than ten years of witnessing Oikawa’s antics, one hoped to familiarize oneself with them. Matsukawa took the liberty of assuming he had a long time ago and discovered that he had not. Today, he deliberated, was not so bad compared to other days—Oikawa passively urged the Council to shorten the meeting by endlessly tapping his feet on the floor and answering others’ questions for them, when he could have arranged servants to interrupt them every fifteen seconds.

 

Which was why he was most unprepared for Oikawa digging his fingers into his arm when they were alone. “I don’t think you should go to bed with your husband," his friend chanted.

 

“I’m … not?” was Matsukawa’s imaginably possible answer.

 

Oikawa was not satisfied. “I mean, not even when he wants to!” he implored. “No, don’t lie to me, I won’t have it. The fact you’ve granted him that much freedom already means you’ve begun to care for him. Don’t do it, it will end up like last time.”

 

“Calm yourself,” he said as he plucked his friend’s fingers from his body. “and tell me how you arrived at that conclusion. I recall you _persuading_ me to lay with him the last time we spoke about this. And no, I do not care for him.”

 

The fingers snapped back to his forearm as if they had always belonged there. Matsukawa groaned.

 

“I,” Oikawa bit his lip. “You will get mad and I am sorry in advance, but I will also have you know that it was not my fault. I was helping him choose an outfit for this luncheon with you and there was green in the closet. Don’t look at me like that, I have no idea how it wound up in there. He was taken to the green, I suppose, again don’t look at me like that, and he asked if I would sleep with him.”

 

“You can if you want,” he muttered sourly.

 

“Will you stop that!” Oikawa slapped his arm. “He wasn’t serious. But it made him look so much like Jun, the green, the way he tilted his head, his face, most of it all, the face.”

 

“Relax, Tooru,” Matsukawa finally collected his arms and crossed them over his chest, where they were safe. “It’s just a face. I’m not dumb enough to fall for the same face that's fucked me over once.”

 

“That’s what you said last time except I suppose you hadn’t been fucked over then, but you should have known,” Oikawa smacked his own forehead. “This is hopeless. He’s exactly your type. And you fall badly, the killing kind of badly. Why don’t I see to that business of finding him a lover, maybe that will keep you out of his bed.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

Oikawa exaggerated, he was sure, because no one, certainly not this Hanamaki Takahiro, could make him love again.

 

Matsukawa cut through his steak, cold anger brewing inside him. The meat was fresh, its inside pink as he preferred it, and the wine was excellent. It would have been perfect, and he might have tolerated another presence at his table, had Hanamaki not worn green. Why he had not followed Oikawa’s advice, Matsukawa could not fathom; it would have been the wise thing to do.

 

For his part, Hanamaki looked pleased. If Matsukawa had not been so overtaken by wrath, he might have found the cause to agree: green really did become him, its depth complimenting Hanamaki’s soft pink hair. Whenever he raised a hand, reaching for the wine glass or dabbing his mouth with a napkin, an ivory wrist appeared briefly. The recently refurbished glass windows let in just enough amount of sunlight to shower his features and Matsukawa could see how long and delicate his eyelashes were. One had to admit, he was quite picturesque.

 

But Matsukawa only heard the bells, chiming over the Grand Hall or, more correctly, the cemetery, and thought about blood. There had been a lot of blood, both on his face and hands, and later on his whole body. It had been redder than he remembered seeing on battlefields, more surreal and real at the same time.

 

“I’ve developed a theory as to why people stare so much,” Hanamaki said, resting his cutlery with a soft clank. Matsukawa smiled politely.

 

“Let us hear it.”

 

“It seemed to me that they were not simply startled by the colour of my hair,” he began. “There was a sense of … what would you have called it? I thought some of it was fear or shock, or both.”

 

Matsukawa nodded and took a seep of his wine. Many had seen. More had heard.

 

“Why would a rare colour as mine induce fear or for that matter, shock? I was not notified it would be considered an inauspicious colour, though unusual. Unless this particular colour was not so unfamiliar and had been seen before.”

 

“If it had been, it would not be forgotten so easily,” he agreed.

 

Hanamaki grinned. He looked pleasantly young and attractive, that Matsukawa was reminded _he_ had been near that age.

 

“I still don’t know his name, though.”

 

He did not hesitate. “Jun.”

 

“Jun,” Hanamaki echoed the name in his mouth, leaning on his hand. The pale of his wrist drew a fine contrast against the dark green. “Is that why you won’t sleep with me? Because your ex-lover looks like me?”

 

“Looked.”

 

Matsukawa did not need to look up from his plate to know that Hanamaki had wiped that grin off his face; the silence was almost palpable in the room. He diligently worked his way through the last of his steak, marvelling in its texture, and refilled his glass.

 

“I’m sorry.” He looked up then, and was surprised–and surprised at himself for being surprised–to find, beside guilt, what appeared to be sympathy in Hanamaki’s eyes. “Did he— Was it—?”

 

The young consort, Matsukawa realised, attributed the death to war or illness. For a fleeting moment, he wished it had been as well. That way he would not be as broken, the nights spent in sweetness and passion now haunting him in the most peaceful mornings.

 

“At my own sword.” It was his time to grin, taking in all of Hanamaki’s face as it paled. Then, raising his knife to his own, where the scar divided his face, Matsukawa added: “after he gave me this.”

 

Hanamaki looked too petrified to move when Matsukawa rose and walked over to him. The picture was complete in green, his— _their_ favourite colour. In some other time, it would be a good idea to have it painted. Reaching out, Matsukawa held his face and gazed into the green eyes. It was the first time touching him with bare hands—he had kept his gloves on even on their wedding night in Higan. The trembling lips were soft under his thumb, just as he remembered them. He leaned in and kissed them, no biting, gentle and caressing. They both reeked of wine and of iron from the meat.

 

“You should go,” said Matsukawa mildly when Hanamaki pushed him away. “Kindaichi is here; you don't want to make him wait, do you?”

 

 


	3. Portrait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanamaki continues to learn new things about Aoba Johsai then quarrels with Matsukawa (again).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a lot of explanations.

When Takahiro saw Kindaichi, his first instincts were to demand the other’s turquoise cloak. Understandably, the black-haired man refused. Naturally, Takahiro insisted. With action.

 

“Please reconsider,” Kindaichi tried to reason with him. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

 

“I beg to differ.” Takahiro pulled at his cloak, diligently working his fingers around unpinning the brooch. “It will be better than to have the people at this castle think the dead have risen.”

 

In all honesty, Takahiro was sick of the colour to death. There was turquoise everywhere in this godforsaken place! It was in the curtains in his bedchamber, around the rims of the plates he dined out of, and in his bathtub. Even the evergreens surrounding the castle turned turquoise in the twilight. Unfortunately for him, seeing the way Kindaichi all but leapt out of his skin upon laying eyes on the green robe, Takahiro had no choice but to acquiesce.

 

Kindaichi made a strangled noise. “B-b-b-but, they will assume things. There will be gossip.”

 

“Like what?”

 

If Takahiro had paused to process his actions, he would have found it most ridiculous and, after a moment or two, slightly scandalous. As it were, he had an arm wrapped around Kindaichi’s torso—which was surprisingly sturdy and warm—and his other arm, having made its way to the brooch, was resting on the bare chest. And Kindaichi, being the good man he was, had denied himself any sort of self-defense by allowing the General Consort to manhandle him.

 

Their faces were mere inches apart. Kindaichi was blushing more severely than Takahiro had when he exited Matsukawa’s dining chamber. There was something about the way he pointedly avoided Takahiro’s eyes that suggested the heat was from something other than innocent horseplay.

 

Slowly, Takahiro removed his hands and stepped back. He cleared his throat. “I was promised a tour.”

 

Without further ado, Kindaichi began guiding him down the hallway. Since arriving at the castle yesterday, Takahiro had become acquainted only with the eastern side where the General’s living quarters were. Last night they slept in the old ceremonial chamber at the northernmost corner of the quarters, traditionally reserved for the General’s first night with his consort, and Takahiro was escorted to his own chambers in the morning. To his understanding, Matsukawa and his bedchambers were joined by a long hallway so that they could visit each other more privately if they so wished, though Takahiro felt certain no such rendezvous would happen between them. Thus far, he quite liked the place he was to spend the rest of his life, a high-ceilinged space with an entire wall opening to the balcony. His only complaint was, of course, its colour scheme—turquoise and silver be damned—but that was to be addressed in the near future.

 

At the present, Kindaichi was leading him away from the General’s quarters, passing the Great Hall at the castle’s heart, and crossing a courtyard to arrive at what appeared to be a gallery full of paintings and sculptures.

 

“This is the General’s collection,” the black-haired knight explained. “I thought this would be a good place to start because it has works from previous times.”

 

Nodding, Takahiro followed the other into the gallery. It was bigger than he initially thought, having been partitioned into three rooms. At a quick glance, most of the paintings in the first room seemed to be of battle scenes, showing portraits of grand-looking men with magnificent moustaches. Takahiro listened to Kindaichi narrate the founding of Aoba Johsai with half an interest, letting his attention wander off to somewhere between one moustache and a silver collar. The Aoba Johsai were originally a mountain people, that much he knew. He had not known, though, that it began as a coalition of three tribes that gradually unified the area.

 

“The Matsukawa, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi families laid the foundations for Aoba Johsai today,” Kindaichi said. He pointed to the tapestry before them, a fine handiwork that depicted three men raising their goblets under a starry sky. There were swirling lines at the bottom, which Takahiro recognised as Aoba Johsai writing but did not comprehend. “I was told Oikawa-san gave you a brief explanation of how the Council and the General operate, is that right?”

 

“Mm-hmm.”

 

“In addition to that, the three families alternate in selecting one of their members to ascend to the position of the General. The Council educates him or her here at the castle, along with children from the remaining families so that they grow up to be close friends and assist the General. If the General passes away prematurely and his successor is yet young, one of the other two will serve.”

 

Takahiro considered that or a moment. “Sounds like an arrangement designed to breed trouble,” he commented. “Don’t you get jealous back-ups or an untalented General?”

 

Kindaichi did not look offended in the least. “If the young General proves to be serious unfit to lead, then the Council will rule against him. That’s why we have the Council and the three families to prevent a single individual from being too powerful. The welfare of Aoba Johsai always comes first.”

 

The prince of Higan was still not convinced—he much preferred the hereditary rule of kings. The throne is passed on to the oldest child or the next in line, simple and easily done. How could anyone argue against that? Rivalries did occasionally rise, but the usurpers usually met a gruesome end. His father, wise as he was, had been set on his successor and adamant that Takahiro should never ascend to the throne, which relieved him much the burden of being the favourite child.

 

Swallowing his doubts, Takahiro asked instead: “You mentioned a third family, yet I am certain I have not met an Iwaizumi here. Who and where is this person?”

 

Kindaichi’s otherwise open face became void of expression for a second. With a polite gesture, he escorted Takahiro into the next room. They stopped before a large portrait that covered the wall from the floor to the ceiling.

 

“He passed away,” the taller man said, positioning himself directly in front of the painting as if the figures it depicted were alive and present before him.

 

As with the tapestry in the previous room, there were three men in the portrait. Takahiro instantly recognized Matsukawa with his thick eyebrows, though his youngish face did not have the scar here. His eyes were less serious, too, and his lips were curved into a rather mischievous smile. Next to him was Oikawa, just as beautiful as he was now. The brown-haired youth was leaning slightly to the right, towards the third man. This, whom Takahiro did not know, had to be Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi was the darker-skinned of the trio as well as the shortest, but of the sturdiest built. Only his arms were bare of the three, no doubt to flaunt the hard muscles. He had cropped black hair and piercing eyes that spoke discipline and self-assurance, similar to what Takahiro imagined he witnessed in Matsukawa’s eyes during the procession. Standing next to Oikawa, Iwaizumi was almost plain—eyebrows too high, angular cheekbones, and lips thinner than was fashionable—but he had all the majestic aura of a wild lion or a hero.

 

“How did he die?” Takahiro asked softly, finding himself unable to his eyes off Iwaizumi’s face.

 

“There was an uprising in one of the colonies and he went to intervene,” Kindaichi sounded distant. Somehow, Takahiro could sense that Kindaichi was also looking at Iwaizumi and not him. “The campaign was successful, but Iwaizumi-san… an arrow wound was infected and he died on the way back. It was such a shock to all of us—, especially for Oikawa-san. They were to be wed when Iwaizumi-san returned.”

 

Takahiro processed the information in silence. Back in Higan, the ongoing expansion of Aoba Johsai in the past decade or two was a recurring gossip at his father’s court. The Aoba Johsai, the barbarians of the mountains, ambushing Karasuno in the north. Or bending the stubborn islanders to their rule, establishing colonies across the archipelago off the West Coast. Most were tales of victories, retold with a tinge of both condescension and awe. Aoba Johsai, it seemed, only unable to push past the borders of the great Shiratorizawa lands and of course, Higan, the blessed land handpicked by gods. His people, Takahiro remembered bitterly, had trusted the mountains beyond reason. What arrogance! For now, the war between Higan and Aoba Johsai was over but only for now and Takahiro was on the other side of the mountains, where war was something of a perennial presence. He wanted to know, eyes tracing Iwaizumi’s form for the fifth time, what the dark-haired man had found in blood to have ventured into the battlefields so young.

 

“How old were they?” he opted to inquire.

 

“Nineteen.”

 

His heart swelled with sympathy for Oikawa. A childhood friend turned lover, a future spouse, then gone. Oikawa looked ecstatically beautiful in the portrait, his shoulders relaxed and head tilted in Iwaizumi’s direction.

 

“I am sorry to hear that.” Takahiro glanced at the other, who was still facing the painting. Suddenly, Kindaichi turned to him, a strangely heated look in his eyes.

 

“He was really great— Iwaizumi–san, I mean. He and Oikawa-san. They worked as a pair and everyone said it was as if one person had reincarnated in two,” Kindaichi’s voice was trembling slightly. “Oikawa-san is a formidable swordsman, but his real talent is as a strategist. Iwaizumi-san was unparalleled on the battlefield, so he executed most of Oikawa-san’s plans and they succeeded brilliantly every single time. It was truly amazing, what they were together, what they…”

 

 _could have been had Iwaizumi lived._ It was unsaid, but Takahiro could sense it. This was the lengthiest that he had heard the other speak and he was overwhelmed by it. Kindaichi clearly admired Oikawa and worshipped Iwaizumi. For some inexplicable reason, Takahiro thought it odd—and perhaps wrong, knowing that it was Matsukawa who was to be the General.

 

Kindaichi seemed to have discerned the prince’s discomfort and continued in his usual voice. “I am sorry. I… Iwaizumi-san was like a brother to me. And I thought. Everyone thought Oikawa-san was going to make the greatest General in Aoba Johsai history.”

 

“Did they?” Takahiro blinked. “I thought Matsukawa was set to ascend.”

 

“Oh…,” Kindaichi’s voice fell. “Please forgive me, I assumed you knew. It was the Oikawa family’s turn then. Oikawa-san abdicated—well, I suppose since he never officially ascended, the proper term would be that he forfeited. Oikawa-san forfeited after he learned of Iwaizumi san’s death, for obvious reasons.”

 

“Naturally,” he agreed. “But… how did he get away with renouncing his duty? I imagine he had been trained for the position his entire life.”

 

The other nodded in agreement, but the answer he gave was not something Takahiro had anticipated, “The Oracle permitted it and blessed Matsukawa-san’s ascension. Not even the Council could press Oikawa-san then.”

 

Takahiro stared at him in disbelief. The influence the Oracle had in Aoba Johsai was still foreign an idea to him, one he did not imagine he would ever grow accustomed to.

 

“Do you think it was the right choice? Matsukawa as the General, that is.”

 

A few days ago, as they were passing the mountains, Oikawa had looked at him in the same way as Kindaichi did now. It had been when Takahiro questioned the Oracle; Oikawa had sounded kind and sincere as if teaching a child.

 

“Of course it was,” Kindaichi said. “The Oracle is never wrong. Matsukawa-san has led us to grand victories and will continue to do so. He’s a great commander. The Oracle said so.”

 

With a sudden loss of appetite for pictures, Takahiro made his way to a nearby sofa. His head was hurting from all the Oracle business—pure superstition or mass brainwash, or even both if anyone cared for his opinion. None in Aoba Johsai likely did, so he clenched his teeth and extended his long legs over the furniture.

 

Apparently, Kindaichi was more sensitive than he had perceived because the black-haired man added: “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but please do not speak ill of the Oracle to Matsukawa-san. I understand that our customs may appear bizarre to outsiders but the General will not hear of the slightest slander against the Oracle.”

 

“I hardly think he will cut me down for it,” Takahiro offered jokingly, then saw Kindaichi’s face and closed his mouth. “Already done that, has he?”

 

Kindaichi looked as though he dared not reply. After a moment had passed, he muttered, “It was not for the same reason, but I am afraid that he might repeat it should the occasion arise.”

 

“Now you must tell me about that as well,” the General Consort sighed, pointedly ignoring the beginnings of a protest. “It will prevent me from further antagonizing him, don’t you think? Green has been horrible already. So tell me, why did Matsukawa kill Jun? Sounded like he was attacked first.”

 

For all his attempts to be discreet, Kindaichi’s face was too open and too easy to read. He now had an expression that debated whether he was to enlighten Takahiro or not and it was one of the most entertaining sights the prince had seen since arriving in Aoba Johsai. At the end of what felt like an eternity, Kindaichi caved in.

 

“Jun did attack Matsukawa-san first,” he began, sounded defeated. “We still don’t fully know who was behind the whole conspiracy, but we know that he was a part of the faction that attempted to assassinate Matsukawa-san and take over.”

 

“Why? You said the system kept things in check.”

 

“It’s just… not all were happy with him ascending over Oikawa-san. With the Oracle’s blessing, they could not publicly voice their dissent but could hope to do so once Matsukawa-san had been, well, disposed of.”

 

“So they convinced his own lover to murder him?” Takahiro was surprised at the harshness of his own voice but that was how he felt about betrayals, that cold-blooded and cruel affair.

 

Kindaichi nodded his head. “Evidence suggests that he approached Matsukawa-san for that purpose in the first place. It was not long after Iwaizumi-san’s funeral and the ascension. Oikawa-san had not left his chambers for almost three months and Matsukawa-san was shattered. He didn’t know what to do. It’s easy to be seduced when one’s so vulnerable.”

 

He uttered those words without meeting Takahiro’s eyes or, for that matter, looking in his direction. Takahiro felt heat return to his cheeks. He rose, abruptly, catapulting the other into action after him.

 

“Come, he urged. “show me the rest.”

 

The third room housed Matsukawa’s fondest part of the collection and was seldom accessible to those other than the General himself. Occasionally, Kindaichi explained, there would be poetry readings or small meetings here but even that would be for Matsukawa’s closest friends. He had not minded, for some reason, allowing Takahiro in.

 

Apart from a couple of landscapes and large chess pieces carved out of wood, the collection mostly comprised portraits of Iwaizumi and Oikawa. Some were the size of a hen’s egg, cased in glass boxes on a pedestal, while others were as big as the full-length mirror in Takahiro’s closet. For once, they were not wearing turquoise but a variety of colours and looked more relaxed and informal. One showed Oikawa as a spirit from a famous legend, dressed in a white chiton and with a garland of wild flowers on his head. The painter had invested great time and effort in capturing the loveliness of his brown eyes.

 

Takahiro frowned in confusion. He was not wrong: there was no image of Matsukawa in the room. If the General spent as much time as Kindaichi said he did here, Takahiro could not help but wonder how lonely it would be, perpetually losing oneself in the past, yearning for what could never be undone.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Matsukawa liked to have his room to himself, preferring to pay a visit to the other side of his quarters than to invite others inside. Every now and then, one of them would get cheeky and insist on sharing his bed, which was usually when they were asked to leave the castle in the dark of the night. It was a shame, Matsukawa lamented inwardly, that he could not do the same to Hanamaki.

 

“Good evening,” Hanamaki greeted him from the table. He did not rise, nor sit up, his body languid against the upholstered chair. The green robe had been replaced by a simple nightgown in white, the same as the previous night.

 

“How did you bully my servants into letting you in?” Matsukawa asked instead of returning the greeting and pulled out a chair opposite Hanamaki’s.

 

The younger looked nonplussed, lips parted in a silent question. “I came through the hallway,” he replied. Then, curiously: “Did you give orders against me entering your chambers?”

 

“Believe me, it’s nothing personal,” Matsukawa grabbed the wine bottle on the table and poured himself a glass. Hanamaki politely declined when he offered him one. “Privacy is important to me. The door to the hallway would be locked from tomorrow on; don’t take it as an offence.”

 

“That’s fine by me, I guess,” said Hanamaki, sounding a bit unsure.

 

Putting his glass down, Matsukawa examined the other. The dampness of his pink hair suggested that he had just left the baths and, upon closer inspection, Matsukawa could see that his cheeks were slightly pinker than usual from the steam.

 

Hanamaki stared back at him.

 

“What brings you here?” the General asked at last. He was still recovering from the long journey and wished for nothing more than a good night’s sleep.

 

Hanamaki fidgeted, grappling with the right words. “I wanted to talk about what happened at the luncheon,” he began. “And I want an apology.”

 

“Do you, now.”

 

For a while, neither said anything. Neither moved. Matsukawa kept his eyes on him and saw the other mirror his gesture. Oddly enough, he did not feel angry at Hanamaki’s request; rather, he found it annoying. After all, this boy—still without the first signs of a beard—had been born a prince. It was obvious that he expected to continue to be treated as one. In all fairness, Matsukawa did not disagree with him, but he would have been lying if he said he wholeheartedly accepted the other as a superior, even less equal.

 

“It wasn’t fair, what you did,” Hanamaki said, defensively crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“I thought Oikawa advised you against the colour. It was yourown doing that landed you in that position.”

 

“I didn’t know what it meant. You haven’t been very enlightening, either. You kept saying it was my hair, not my face.”

 

“Don’t,” he warned. “Now you know why I didn’t.”

 

This conversation had to end. Soon. Matsukawa pushed his chair back and stood, the glass in his hand, and was about to bid good night when Hanamaki dragged him down with a hand in his sleeve.

 

“I’m not done,” he hissed.

 

“Don’t be so impertinent,” Matsukawa snapped, easily releasing himself from the other. He would have spilt wine on his clothes had he not found his balance in time. Before Hanamaki could react again, he raised a hand and fixed him with a stern gaze. “ _I_ decide when you’re done. Now if you please, return to your room and don’t bother me for a change.”

 

He turned to leave, and would have reached his bed in peace had Hanamaki listened to him. But the young prince was proving to be more obstinate than he ever imagined and he doubted, albeit weakly, why the Oracle had assigned him this fate in the first place.

 

“It’s hardly my fault, is it,” Hanamaki shouted at him. “I did not ask you to bring me here or to wage war on my father, that was you and your precious, moronic Oracle–”

 

“Don’t you dare,” Matsukawa took a step towards him, white fury mounting inside–

 

“And I certainly did not ask for the same face that let you fuck him so that he could stick a knife in you!”

 

The next thing he knew, Hanamaki was lunging at him. His cheek was beginning to swell where Matsukawa’s fist had landed. They fell to the carpeted floor, struggling to get on top of the other. Hanamaki, Matsukawa belatedly realised, was stronger than he had first thought; if he lacked the discipline, the younger responded with vicious clawing and biting where he could.

 

Snatching a hand from his hair, Matsukawa pinned it against the floor with force. The rest shortly followed. Breathing hard, he averted Hanamaki’s effort to knee him in the groin by placing his own on the other’s stomach and pushed down. Hanamaki yelped, wrists wriggling under Matsukawa’s clutch, then went still except for the harsh movement of his chest.

 

Matsukawa raised his upper body without releasing his hands. A drop of blood was perspiring at the corner of Hanamaki’s mouth and there was a small cut on the side of his forehead. During their struggle, the front of his nightgown had also become undone. The redness had spread to his chest. With a deliberate slowness, Matsukawa collected Hanamaki’s writs in one hand and held them above his head.

 

“You said you wouldn’t,” Hanamaki whispered, breath hitching at the back of his neck.

 

As if burnt, Matsukawa whipped his hands away. He was on the other side of the room in a heartbeat. “And I won’t,” he said out loud.

 

He watched Hanamaki bring himself up to his feet, careful and a tad anxious, and pull his gown tightly about him. Even from a distance, Matsukawa could see the ends of his fingers tremble ever so slightly.

 

“I’m sorry,” he apologised after quiet had returned to the chamber. Hanamaki's eyes widened.

 

“I’m sorry, too,” the prince mumbled. “I shouldn’t have said those things.”

 

“But you’re not wrong,” Matsukawa shrugged. “People warned me about him. I didn’t listen and got what I deserved. And you are right about none of this being your fault. It’s my problem and you should not have to deal with it. I’m sorry about that.”

 

Hanamaki approached him. It did nothing to lessen the awkwardness between them, but Matsukawa somehow felt soothed. “It’s not your fault,” his husband said firmly. “He took advantage of you. It wasn’t fair.”

 

He could only smile. Life was never fair. One tried, but that meant more often than not putting one’s own life on the line. Hanamaki was different, he supposed, at least for the time being, born and raised the way he was in the comforts of an unchallenged royal family.

 

Turning his heels, Matsukawa beckoned the other to follow him.

 

“Here, hold on to this until the physician comes,” he said, handing a wet towel to Hanamaki. “It’ll help ease the pain.”

 

“I don’t think I want to see one,” Hanamaki replied, eyes dropping to the towel.

 

“You don’t want it to bruise, do you?”

 

“It’ll go away in a few days.”

 

Matsukawa raised an eyebrow. “No one’s going to tell me off if that’s what you’re worried about. If anything, you hit me pretty badly, too.”

 

“That’s not–,” Hanamaki started and sighed. “Fine, I _am_ a bit worried. I don’t want to be known for picking fights. Let someone bring powder or something tomorrow, I’ll cover it up if it bruises.”

 

“I won’t be telling others you provoked it,” he shook his head. Hanamaki seemed to have an innate talent for making someone angry. Or perhaps it was only him. “but fine, suit yourself. Don’t complain about the pain; I did warn you.”

 

“What makes you think I haven’t taken a beating before?” retorting in a small voice, Hanamaki crossed the chamber and approached Matsukawa’s bedchamber. For a brief moment, his pink head disappeared behind the door before reemerging and entering inside. Puzzled, Matsukawa followed.

 

“What do you mean?” he enquired, closing the doors behind him.

 

The passage to Hanamaki’s bedchamber was in his own. He had never been curious enough to pass through it himself and had had it locked for the most of the past ten years. Pondering what it possibly looked like, Matsukawa waited for Hanamaki to open the secret door. But to his further perplexity, the consort trotted over to his husband’s bed and lifted the bed cover.

 

“What are you doing?” Matsukawa rephrased his question.

 

“Going to bed,” said Hanamaki from under the blanket.

 

“In mine?”

 

“There are maids in my chamber. I didn’t know how to tell them to leave me for the night and I don’t want them to see me like this.” Hanamaki sounded muffled, no doubt from the way he was nursing his swollen cheek.

 

It was not rare for Matsukawa to lose his words, which he did now. He blamed it on his exhaustion and was reminded of how badly he wanted to sleep. Without words, he got into bed and purposefully positioned his body close to his husband’s. Hanamaki grumbled and shifted an inch.

 

“I suppose we will sleep like this, then,” Matsukawa claimed.

 

“I suppose we will,” came the reply, just as level.

 

A part of his brain suggested that he should have gotten used to sleeping next to Hanamaki. After all, they had been sharing bedding for the past week or so, though this was the second day in a row that they had found each other in an actual bed. Inside the walls, as opposed to the canvas walls of the tent, he could hear Hanamaki’s breathing more clearly and feel every small movement of his body. Not only that, but his bed also had not been built for two grown-up men. With an exasperated sigh, Matsukawa opened his mouth.

 

“Since you know so much about me, why don’t you enlighten me of some of your own life back in Higan,” he prompted.

 

Hanamaki did not answer immediately, making him wonder if the other had already fallen asleep. “What do you want to know?” the deep voice asked in return.

 

“You spoke of a beating,” his eyes were heavy with sleep, but for some reason, Matsukawa could not let himself embrace that sensation of falling into one. “Who was it?”

 

“Who would be insane enough to beat a prince, you mean,” there was a slight laugh in Hanamaki’s words. “My older brothers, of course. I got along well with my younger siblings.”

 

“Why? Brotherly rivalry?”

 

“That would have been sweet. I’m the favourite child, remember? Takashi—my eldest brother and the Crown Prince, I’m sure you know—wasn’t mad with it. Father made it very clear from the start that I would never be king just because he loved me the most and doted on Takashi just as much. He had no reason to feel threatened by me. But that leaves Yuta and Junichiro, who thought they deserved more attention as older sons.”

 

Matsukawa fell silent. If he remembered correctly, those two were the names of the Higan princes he had slain in battle. The brothers had looked nothing alike, not that Hanamaki’s hair had anything to compare to from the beginning. Now that he summoned the battles inside his head, however, Matsukawa thought he recalled the similar shade of eyes.

 

“When they had the time, they would train me and by that I mean they beat me,” Hanamaki continued. “They were quite hellish about it. It was always subtle, though, subtle enough for Father to chide them for being too hard on me but pass it on without finding any serious fault in it.”

 

“I see.”

 

“So I’m fine with a beating or two, don’t take me for a garden flower.”

 

“Don’t make it sound like a challenge.”

 

Hanamaki laughed, and it was the first real laugh he had heard from the other since they met. It was as pleasant as he remembered, if somewhat lower, and brought heat to his ears.

 

In a quieter voice, Hanamaki added: “I don’t think I ever loved them, but… I also never wanted them to die.”

 

 _Especially for me_.

 

It was a dark night; no moonlight entered his chamber. Matsukawa moved his head to a side, but could not see the expression on Hanamaki’s face. “I won’t apologise for invading your country,” he said evenly. “but I’m sorry for your loss.”

 

“That’s the shittiest consolation I have ever heard,” Hanamaki snorted and lay on his stomach. Facing the other, he could almost feel Matsukawa’s breathing on his face. “Do others ever come into your room?”

 

“Not if I can help it,” Matsukawa answered after a thought. “Naturally, some come in to wake me up and assist me with getting dressed. Or to deliver breakfast. Sometimes it will be Oikawa, it’s no use putting orders against him.”

 

“When you told me to find a lover…,” his consort said slowly. “I was curious if you had one as well. Though that was before I knew about the whole… story.”

 

“I don’t think I’ll be inclined to find one for another decade. In the meanwhile, I have my harem.”

 

Hanamaki set up, eyes widened. “You have a harem?”

 

“Yes, I do,” the other was beginning to sound annoyed. “I won’t share it with you if that’s why you’re excited all of a sudden; feel free to build your own.”

 

“I never said anything _remotely_ close to that,” a hand lightly punched the space between them. “It’s just that I have never seen one who actually has one. Is it common in Aoba Johsai? People are painfully secretive about that in Higan and you don’t usually get to keep more than one lover unless you want them fighting over you and erupt into a public scandal.”

 

Oikawa had said something about the honour code in Higan. It made no sense to Matsukawa–facade austerity like that only bred secrets and secrets meant trouble. “I wouldn’t say it is common but it is definitely known and exercised. The Council doesn’t love it and they probably hoped you would keep me out of there.”

 

“Except they didn’t know what I looked like,” Hanamaki mused. “Is that what the Oracle said? About me.”

 

“Close enough, but not quite,” Matsukawa’s voice was the gentlest he had heard. “I won’t discuss it now. Let’s go to sleep; I’m sure you need it as well.”

“All right.” Then, not a few seconds after: “How many people are there in your harem? Do you lay with both men and women? Can I visit? I won’t do anything, I just want to know what a harem looks like.”

 

Matsukawa threw a spare pillow at him. “Go. To. Sleep.”

  
  
  


 

* * *

 

They woke up around the same time, but not before Matsukawa pushed Hanamaki out of his arms. Hanamaki retreated to the other side of the bed, his young face lost with sleep, then opened his eyes. Raising a hand to cover a yawn, he jerked–the left side of his face was pretty swollen and it hurt to open his mouth wide. Matsukawa looked at him expectantly, the judgment passed in silence.

 

“Good morning,” Hanamaki said with feigned brightness. “Did you sleep well?”

 

“Moderately well,” came the reply. Matsukawa rubbed his chin, where a stubble had sprouted overnight, and contemplated if he could wait a few more days before shaving it off.

 

Both were still heavy with sleep. They lay side by side, Hanamaki on the side that did not hurt his face and Matsukawa staring up at the canopy. There was a knock on the door.

 

“Come in,” Matsukawa called and, as an afterthought, pulled Hanamaki close to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

 

Hanamaki gaped at him in disbelief. “What the hell?” he whispered.

 

“Why not?” he shrugged. “We’re in bed together; it would be odd not to.”

 

“Good morning, Mattsun!” Oikawa entered, a full smile on his lips. He stopped dead in tracks when he saw the two in bed.

 

“Oh, it’s just you,” Matsukawa took a look at the newcomer. He shoved Hanamaki.

 

“Hey!”

 

Ignoring him, Matsukawa left the bed and let Oikawa throw a turquoise gown around him. Oikawa’s delicate eyebrows were slightly narrowed and he pouted, but he walked to the windows without a word and draw the curtains back. Rays of sunshine pooled into the chamber in a mere second. Groaning, Hanamaki ducked under the blanket.

 

“Rise and shine, please,” Oikawa’s voice was sweet, but his hands were not. They grabbed the blanket with such force that Hanamaki was left in the cold before he had gone back to the mattress. “They’re staging a play for you in the afternoon.”

 

“But that’s in the afternoon,” he protested.

 

“No matter. There are things to be done, robes to be fitted, and people to be met. Not to mention a resumption of your languages lessons with Kunimi-chan.”

 

“He doesn’t know how to tell the servants to leave him,” Matsukawa offered from the other end of the room. Hanamaki wanted to smack him.

 

One would have thought, now that he was married, he would no longer be treated as a child. Sadly for him, it seemed that his nanny had been replaced with Oikawa. Or others that would come knock on his door on mornings to come. With his bare feet firmly planted on the carpet, Hanamaki stretched and felt the bones in his back crack. He let out a moan.

 

“Now,” he heard Oikawa say. “Tell me what happened last night; you two look like nightmares.”

 

For a split second, Matsukawa and Hanamaki's eyes met. Matsukawa nodded. Jumping over the few pieces of furniture in the room, they raced to the passage door, entered it, and locked it from inside.

 

"Why are you acting like such children? Tell me what you did!" Oikawa banged on the door. "FINE! I'LL JUST MEET YOU IN THE OTHER ROOM!"

 

"Not if the doors are also locked there, you won't," Matsukawa shouted over the banging. Hanamaki had already reached his chambers, nearly tripping over the threshold while laughing.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. The Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you talking about me?” Hanamaki asked in Aoba Johsai. His face now looked clean and fresh, the powder working wonders, although the corner of his lower lip remained visibly swollen. Luckily for them, it was nothing the vivid imagination of courtiers could not latch onto.
> 
> “No, sweetheart,” said Oikawa kindly in the same tongue, then switched to Higan. “Are you dressed? Please, do show us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

“You’re a blithering idiot,” said Oikawa. 

 

“Thank you for your insight,” Matsukawa replied dryly. Made to suffer through one of Oikawa’s moods, he had half the mind to keep the bowl of cherries to himself, only his friend had already plucked it out of his hands. Oikawa scowled a little when he tasted one—must have been sour, serves him right—and rudely threw his legs over the sofa, poking Matsukawa’s thighs with his toes.

 

“I really cannot believe how much of an airhead you are,” he said. 

 

Matsukawa merely hummed in response. It had been a while since he last heard Oikawa flaunt his extensive vocabulary of insults and was somewhat interested if it had expanded. So far, the man had called the General of Aoba Johsai “a simpleton” and “a love-struck fool”, followed by “the grand dolt who’s going to drive us all into extinction”.

 

“You are exaggerating,” Matsukawa finally said when the other man threw a cherry at him, a sure sign of a tantrum. Iwaizumi handled him better in situations like this, he had to admit (but of course, no one could perfectly manage Oikawa). “Why are you being like this, anyway? You cannot possibly be that mad at me for sleeping with him, which I did _not_.”

 

Before Oikawa could answer, a pink head appeared from behind the screens.

 

“Are you talking about me?” Hanamaki asked in Aoba Johsai. His face now looked clean and fresh, the powder working wonders, although the corner of his lower lip remained visibly swollen. Luckily for them, it was nothing the vivid imagination of courtiers could not latch onto.

 

“No, sweetheart,” said Oikawa kindly in the same tongue, then switched to Higan. “Are you dressed? Please, do show us.” 

 

The head disappeared, then, after a few seconds of shuffling, reemerged with the rest. Both of the older men were momentarily speechless. Hanamaki had forsaken their traditional colours for bright yellow and long-sleeved surcoat with geometric embroidery around the hems. A leather belt hung snugly around his waist and he wore matching leather shoes. Accepting a ring bracelet from a servant, Hanamaki waved a hand in front of their eyes.

 

“Well?” he demanded.

 

Matsukawa’s brows were creased. “I hate the colour.”

 

“Mattsun!” Oikawa slapped his arm. He turned to one glowering Hanamaki. “It will certainly be a change at the court, but I like it. But if you had any other options in mind, we’d be happy to see them as well.”

 

“Oikawa will be,” his friend grumbled.

 

“ _We_ will be,” he repeated with an emphasis. 

 

Hanamaki did not seem impressed. Sullenly, he dragged the rack into view and gestured towards its colourful array. He had brightened at the idea of a play—something to _enjoy_ , finally—then irritable when he learned that he had to be paraded in the “correct costume” (“No unfortunate colours this time,” Oikawa had stressed, without looking at Matsukawa) for the occasion. Sure, it was going to be his first official appearance at the Aoba Johsai court; that did not mean he could allow himself to walk around in that turquoise and silver for another day. Which landed him in the current quandary, where Oikawa and he struggled to balance the Higan obsession with spectacles and the Aoba Johsai penchant for austerity. His husband, reticent as ever, only contributed grunts and disapproving looks.

 

Suppressing a sigh, Oikawa browsed through the more modest colours of the bunch. He had never been to the Higan court, but could easily imagine how offensive it would be to the eye with a room full of people in all the shades of the rainbow. After some deliberation, he picked up a navy blue cotehardie, its hems embroidered in silver with angles softer and curved compared to the ones Hanamaki wore.

 

“This is a lovely colour,” said Oikawa, holding it to Hanamaki’s chest. The other’s eyes traced over its form.

 

“I prefer them longer,” he replied. After a pause, he added, “and blue does not always go well with me. I think…”

 

Taking the garment from Oikawa, Hanamaki strode towards the sofa. Matsukawa, who had lost the meagre interest he had in the conversation to begin with, was giving instructions to the servants for the afternoon.

 

“That’s fine, just get on with it, will you,” he said when Hanamaki lay the blue cotehardie in his laps. “What? I’m not going to dress you myself.”

 

Hanamaki ignored him. “I think you should try this on.”

 

Matsukawa raised an eyebrow. “No, thank you,” he answered promptly. “I already know what I’m wearing to the play. Besides, it’s been tailored for you; it won’t fit me.”

 

“You are not that big,” he protested and made a move to grab one of Matsukawa’s arms. It was firm and thick in Hanamaki’s hands, so perhaps the man was substantially larger than him—but he was determined to see something other than turquoise on his husband for once and set about unbuttoning his shirt. Startled, Matsukawa smacked his hands away with more force than was necessary.

 

“Don’t,” he snapped.

 

“You spent the morning making me get into and out of all those robes,” Hanamaki complained, now practically shoving the garment in his face. “Come on, be fair.”

 

Matsukawa looked at Oikawa for help, but his friend was studying the two of them with an avid interest in his eyes. _And_ pretended not to have seen his glare.

 

“If you’re your father’s favourite because you happen to be the least obnoxious of his children, I cannot but feel thoroughly sorry for him," he grumbled.

 

“How rude!” Hanamaki cried in a feigned hurt. “I’m his favourite because I’m the most charming. Now, really. Kunimi is scheduled to meet me in a short while and I won’t leave until I’ve seen you in this.”

 

If it had been any other day, he would have told the young consort to miss his lessons for all he cared. Or deliver him to Kunimi himself, but without giving in to his ridiculous requests. Unfortunately, Matsukawa had already suffered Hanamaki's antics (and Oikawa's combined) earlier that day and found himself in want of quiet, whatever that cost may be. So he responded by relaxing his body against the sofa and watched, with a sprouting idea in his mind, Hanamaki grin in triumph.

 

 

“Fine, but only if you do the work,” he suggested slyly. Just as he thought, the other stiffened, the lightest shade of pink rising in his cheeks.

 

“There are three servants in this room,” Hanamaki mumbled.

 

“You seemed unchallenged by the idea a minute ago,” Matsukawa gestured towards his open shirt, leaning further on the sofa. He beckoned. “What are you waiting for? Undress me.”

 

This time, it was Hanamaki who looked to Oikawa in the hopes of assistance and found none. The brown-haired man merely showed his open hands, not a single word leaving his mouth. One would have believed his sincerity had he not been so obviously on the verge of laughter. With a groan, Hanamaki refocused on Matsukawa, who was regarding him with a smirk on his face.

 

Forcing his hands to be steady, Hanamaki wrapped his fingers around a turquoise button and unclasped it. There were buttons from below Matsukawa’s neck down to the end of the shirt, which meant more and more of the hard muscles were revealed with each releasing motion. He had expected Matsukawa to have a body like this, but not quite _this—_ chest broadened with years of training, adorned with a faint scar on one side, and the tan that expanded over the abdomen. A trail of black hair began below the navel and disappeared into where the trousers began.

 

When he ran out of buttons to undo, Hanamaki was suddenly made aware of what his hands were doing there, his fingertips brushing the skin of Matsukawa’s bare belly, and hastily tugged at the open shirt.

 

“Sit up,” he ordered.

 

To his relief, Matsukawa complied without a word. But he wrapped an arm around Hanamaki’s waist to do so, bringing the two of them closer, and Hanamaki had to will every grain of his body not to slap that grin off his face. As calmly as he could, he pushed the shirt away from the other’s shoulders and removed the sleeves one by one. Matsukawa’s arm returned when the deed was done. It radiated heat against his own body, an unignorable weight, and Hanamaki could swear that his cheeks were by now the same shade as his pink hair.

 

 _Halfway through_ , he encouraged himself silently. At least Matsukawa was compliant like this, lifting each arm when Hanamaki threw the cotehardie around him. The garment was indeed small for the older man, as he had predicted, but they managed to pull his hands out on the other side of the sleeves without embarrassing themselves. 

 

“I can hardly move my arms,” Matsukawa laughed when Hanamaki had buttoned everything. “much less feel them.”

 

“At least the colour suits you,” he commented, eyeing the way the fabric stretched over Matsukawa’s thick chest. He wished he had been notified of the play sooner so that he could have asked the tailors to reform an attire for his husband. Turquoise was too muted and subdued. Granted, it did not do Matsukawa do much harm, but navy definitely fared better with his complexion.

 

With a constrained shrug, Matsukawa pulled him onto his laps. Hanamaki gave a little yelp.

 

“Well then,” the General said. “change me back, I could not possibly meet my ministers like this.”

 

He was met by a not so gentle shove in the shoulders, then a very red-faced Hanamaki stomping his way out of the dressing room.

 

“I’m going to find Kunimi” was the last thing he heard of the other before the doors slammed shut. Matsukawa leisurely turned to Oikawa, who had been standing witness by the window. His face, albeit not as deeply as Hanamaki’s, was flushed in red.

 

“You can laugh now,” Matsukawa told his friend, chuckling himself.

 

Oikawa had never needed more permission than that; a high-pitched laughter soon followed. 

 

“I don’t think you should tease him like that,” he managed, wiping a tear from the corner of his eyes.

 

“But you would love to see it again,” Matsukawa said as one of the servants undressed him. It felt nice to be back in his own clothes, the familiar fabric hugging his arms comfortably. Familiar colours, too. But if he had to be completely honest, the navy blue had not been entirely disagreeable either. Perhaps in the future, he thought.

 

In the meantime, Oikawa had returned to join him on the sofa. He was still clutching his sides, but looked more relaxed and no longer prone to throwing cherries.

 

“I’m glad you’re beginning to make friends with him,” he said. “which is not to say that I am not worried about it. You went too far last night and you know it.”

 

Matsukawa’s jaws set. He knew. It was not enough that he rarely lost control; he had to come close to never losing it. Because when he did, things usually ended with blood—the event of five years ago testified to that. He remembered the way they had restrained him, someone’s gold-embroidered handkerchief pressed to his face to stop the bleeding in vain, and the distance they had put between the two of them. It was several yards, far enough for them to summon guards whilst Oikawa tried to divert his attention, but not far enough for Matsukawa to snatch a sword from Kindaichi’s hand, take a few strides, and drive the cold steel into his body. Only standing in the pool of blood did he realise his blunder.

 

“He beat me pretty badly, too, if it makes you feel any better,” he offered, hoping for a lighter atmosphere.

 

Oikawa was particularly impenetrable today. “You gave him a black eye and torn lips,” he chided. “Mattsun, just— think! We may have beaten the Higans once, but they won’t let it happen twice. And Hanamaki’s cousin is married to the Grand Duke of Shiratorizawa. We don’t want to give them an excuse to come nosing around here.”

 

“You think we couldn’t take them?”

 

“We could, probably, if we absolutely had to,” he said harshly. “but it would be best if we didn’t have to worry about them to begin with. At least for the time being, that is. It’s just. I worry that you’re more reactive when you are around him. Sometimes I can see that you two would get along just fine, but you won’t be always bickering at each other like this morning. He _will_ anger you again and I hate to learn what you would do then.”

 

Hopefully, he did not, but they both knew that utter peace would be impossible with Hanamaki. The young prince was spontaneous, sharp-tongued, and frightfully clever and, regrettably, lacked the discipline or will to recognise when it served him better to back down. Whether it was stubbornness or ignorance Matsukawa did not yet know, only that it easily catapulted him into action.

 

“I couldn’t avoid him forever even if I wanted to,” he smiled ruefully. “He’s my consort.”

 

“Not to mention very attractive,” Oikawa petted his arm.

 

“When he wants to be.” 

 

“Which is most of the times,” his friend looked at him very, very pointedly. “when he’s around you.”

 

Matsukawa did not get to voice his disagreement, because a servant entered to inform him of his officials’ arrival. Wardrobe tour was over; there were state affairs to be discussed. But even when he was seated in the other side of the castle, on his grand throne of pine tree, he found his throughs returning to the pink-haired youth—the blush, the hair, the lips, and, most of it all, the warmth.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Takahiro focused and re-focused his eyes on the parchment before him. A short passage was written on it, only five or six sentences, with a table of vocabulary below. Tapping the quill in his hand against the wooden table, he studied one of the words. It was soft and flowery, with swirls that were absent in the rigid Higan script. He moved onto another. Then back. They looked the same.

 

“I think my head is having a spasm,” he declared.

 

Sitting across from him at the wooden table, Kunimi raised his head out of politeness. The black-haired man held a bound manuscript in his hand and a quill in the other, suspended mid-air in response to Takahiro’s sudden call for attention.

 

“Perhaps a break,” Kunimi suggested, although he had made the same offer not more than twenty minutes ago.

 

The General Consort accepted his generosity without much deliberation.

 

“How can ‘the same’ and ‘to have gone’ sound the same, yet be written completely different?” he complained once he had abandoned his stationary and leaned back in his chair with a cup of tea. “Aoba Johsai is too difficult. I’m never going to master it, am I.”

 

“It is always ideal to learn a foreign language when one is young,” Kunimi said calmly. “But you are still quite young. I do not doubt that you will learn to speak it fluently.”

 

The foreign tongue was by no means new to Takahiro. From childhood and until his marriage, he had been taught in several languages—including Shiratorizawan and Daté—and had learned to manage them quite well. A rather distant neighbour, if one considered the mountains, the language of the Aoba Johsai people never found its way into his lessons or his father's’ court. As much of a missed opportunity as it seemed now, no one there—not even people like Otagawa, who had the wildest imagination—could have predicted that Takahiro would one day be married to an Aoba Johsai.

 

Reminded of the years he spent at his desk for a future spouse from Shiratorizawa, Takahiro was briefly and silently embarrassed.

 

“I’m afraid I don’t share your confidence in the matter,” he sighed.

 

“You’ve improved more quickly than most others in your situation.” Kunimi’s encouragements were always prompt and matter-of-factly, if slightly underwhelming in content. The man was a realist. “Besides, Higan and Aoba Joshai are not utterly alien to each other. Our grammar structures, as you will have noticed, are actually quite similar.”

 

“I supposed you are right,” Takahiro replied, deep in thought. More words than he had imagined shared similar sounds, while others remained impossible to pronounce or spell. He glanced at Kunimi, whose eyes had returned to the manuscript, and recalled the sounds of the other man’s perfect intonations in his head. Suddenly curious, he leaned forward again. “How come you speak Higan so well? Better than some of the natives I know, even.”

 

Kunimi’s black eyes regarded him. He closed the manuscript, resting the quill on its stand. “I come from a family of traders,” he began. “We travelled extensively and spent a few years in the north of Higan. My nanny was incidentally a Higan, as were my closest friends.”

 

“I see. What does your family trade?" 

 

“Textiles, Your Highness,” Kunimi answered and, as if as an afterthought, added, “they no longer trade, however. Most of my family members perished in war ten years ago.”

 

“That is most unfortunate,” Takahiro frowned. “Which war? That could not have been in Higan.”

 

“No, Your Highness. It was during one of Aoba Johsai’s campaigns against Iowaté. We were taken hostage along with our caravans and not many of us survived.”

 

The man did not seem as though he had been touched by the tragedy, composed and unblinking as he were. It was Takahiro who shifted in discomfort, fingers wrapping tightly around the cup as he relived the imagined trauma. His brothers used to mock him for being a coward, but he was never able to embrace the idea of war, that gruesome affair with only death at its tail. Shuddering, Takahiro studied the other’s face for a betrayal of emotion and found none. 

 

“Don’t you ever wish Aoba Johsai would war less?” he asked. “So many lives are lost. What land or wealth could be worth that?”

 

Kunimi’s reply was as calm as it was grisly. “On the contrary, I am glad they war so often. The Aoba Johsai are a restless people; even if they did not venture outside, they would still war amongst themselves. Kindaichi has surely shared that bit of history with you—a third of their population was wiped out before the three founding families came together.”

 

He had, albeit without the statistics. Such drive for war, for battles, for blood… it was distasteful. An ever-growing pit sat heavily in Takahiro’s stomach.

 

“You speak as though you are not one of them,” he commented. “Is it because you grew up outside the borders? How did you end up here?”

 

“Perhaps I _am_ less of a patriot than my friends,” Kunimi smiled, voice gentle. “Matsukawa-san’s father… I suspect you will meet him soon, he’s gone to Karasuno as an ambassador. He was a general when we first met and brought me to the capital. I’ve been under his wing ever since." 

 

It now struck Takahiro that he had not heard a single thing about Matsukawa’s family. Or introduced to any one of his in-laws, for that matter. Why he had not found this unusual before, he could not remember; the abrupt revelation that he must have (at least) an in-law made him nervous. 

 

“What– What is he like?” he swallowed. The image of an extraordinarily tall and stern-looking man developed in Takahiro’s mind, a greying man with distinctively sloping eyebrows. He would probably have a deep voice, not unlike Matsukawa’s, thick and layered with a touch of raspiness. Would he react the same way as his son had upon seeing Takahiro for the first time? Takahiro could not imagine the two of them being close or Matsukawa would have mentioned him during the past few days. 

 

Whatever impression Takahiro had formed of Matsukawa the Senior, Kunimi soon proved otherwise. “Junpei-san is a kind man,” he said. “and loves his son dearly. I believe there was some resentment in his family for naming Issei-san as his heir because they are not related by blood, but Issei-san has made them proud.”

 

“If not his son, then whose?” Did that mean the elder Matsukawa did not have those eyebrows? 

 

“That remains unsolved,” Kunimi glanced at him. “I see this had not been disclosed to you, but it’s no secret. Issei-san was an orphan Junpei-san found in the western colonies.”

 

Takahiro delivered yet another news in silence. In Higan, officials of state rarely adopted, unless the adopted child was secretly a bastard of the adopting nobleman. He tried to imagine how his father’s lords would have reacted if he had brought a foundling to be their next king. Most assuredly, not well. The divine rule or not, the king could not forgo his own bloodline like that.

 

When he shared his thoughts, Kunimi simply shrugged. “Issei-san received the highest Aoba Johsai education and has proven to be a loyal and able General. His ancestry hardly matters, though, of course, Junpei-san’s immediate family would have preferred to wait for a newborn heir. But Matsukawa family has never been blessed with many children and Junpei-san had just lost an infant son when he met Issei-san. It was meant to be, in a way.”

 

“I suppose you are right.”

 

“Does it bother you? One might consider that you’ve been married beneath your status.”

 

“No,” he answered quickly, then paused to deliberate. “No,” he repeated. “I can think of a few people back home who will indeed think that, but it doesn’t bother me. I… quite like him.”

 

Kunimi looked at him.

 

“Not like...,” he stammered. “I mean, we’ve had our disagreements, but I don’t _dis_ like him, I…”

 

They both sat in quiet for a moment. Kunimi picked up a piece of parchment that Takahiro had written a few sentences on and examined it.

 

“A small mistake here, Your Highness,” he stated as if they had been sipping tea in silence from the start. The prince welcomed the digression, picking up his quill. His ears felt hot.

 

 

 

* * *

 

The Theatre was a relatively new addition to the capital, designed some decades ago by Oikawa’s great-uncle, and its freshness still contrasted with the muted green of its surroundings. Technically, the open theatre was well outside the main castle walls where the General and his household resided, about half an hour’s ride away, yet was commonly referred to as ‘the next door’. Its most striking feature was perhaps its backdrop, a small lake framed with willow trees. At sunset, the water glowed in crimson red.

 

Matsukawa found his husband dismounting his mare before the entrance, with Kunimi and a few others escorting him. To his relief, his consort had changed into white—still no turquoise or silver, but better than that blinding yellow. The surcoat was longer than the one he had tried on that morning, partially covering his feet, and had wider sleeves. Instead of leather, a golden cord held the garment together. Approaching him, Matsukawa realised that the glistening in Hanamaki’s hair was coming from a gold circlet. At the centre of the swirls set an emerald, its transparency reflected in the prince’s eyes in the afternoon sun.

 

“Good afternoon,” Hanamaki greeted first. His husband was clad in a form-fitting jacket in white and dark brown breeches, an attire he had not seen before. Usually, Matsukawa seemed to prefer loose clothing. There was a turquoise cloak thrown around his shoulders, not dissimilar to the one he had worn at their wedding in Higan, but this one had rising stars, not falling.

 

“How did your study go?” Matsukawa inquired, kissing the other on his cheek.

 

“Moderately well,” he answered reluctantly and leaned in to return the gesture, chapped lips brushing over Matsukawa’s scar. They walked arm in arm; men and women who had gathered rose when they entered through the archway.

 

There were murmurs. Brief, but there. Hanamaki held his head high, wearing an expression of both impeccable indifference and arrogance that only those born into the royal family of Higan could master. The newly married couple found their seats in the central row, a spot that opened to the ideal view of the lake.

 

Cabinet members and ministers came to introduce themselves to the new General Consort. Unlike Matsukawa’s knights, who were not much older than Hanamaki, the youngest of the respected Aoba Johsai members was a woman in her late forties, a Lady Horii. Hanamaki listened to her enthusiastic greetings with a practised smile on his face, catching half of her words and letting the rest go. Then repeated the process with the next in the queue.

 

“What is the play about?” he asked between Lord Kisa and Lady Murakami.

 

“The Legend of Suzuran,” Matsukawa answered, glad to be off the spectacular centre of attention for once. “I assume you are familiar with it.”

 

“Familiar? Every child in Higan knows it. And I do love it, but why that particular story?”

 

A page boy offered them wine. Hanamaki watched the older man take a glass in wordless disapproval; in his opinion, Matsukawa drank far too often and far too much.

 

As if reading his thoughts, Matsukawa drained the glass in one go and replaced it with another. He turned the glass in his hand, the blood-red wine swirling inside. “It is quite loved here as well,” he explained. “You will find out that we offer an extended version of yours, one that continues after Suzuran’s flight into the mountains.”

 

“Does it?” Hanamaki sounded intrigued. “Tell me, what happens? I do not mind spoilers.”

 

“She reaches Aoba Johsai, of course.”

 

“Are you mocking me?”

 

“No, I’m really not.” Matsukawa laughed. “This is our version of the legend. Supposedly, Suzuran and her squire lover crossed the mountains and arrived where we are today. It is said that her son married into one of the most powerful families in the land, so either Oikawa or I have a drop of her blood in him.”

 

Hanamaki gagged. “Well, I am supposedly descended from her sister, so that makes us cousins of a kind. I could have lived without this knowledge, Matsukawa.”

 

“I assure you, we are far enough for our union to be properly incestuous.”

 

Granting Lady Hisamatsu and her wife, the last of the well-wishers, leave to return to their seats, Matsukawa leaned back on his cushion and studied the other from below. His hair looked soft and weightless against the sun, the tips of his eyelashes almost transparent. White suited him just as well, casting a bright halo around his face, although if Matsukawa had had any say in the matter the circlet would be silver, not gold.

 

“Who are the actors?” Hanamaki asked, somewhat out of reflection, when he caught Matsukawa’s eyes on him. Sometimes the grey eyes just watched him and their opacity made him jumpy.

 

“A famous troupe, I hear,” he answered without shifting his gaze. “Lord Hiroshi—you met him just now—organised the whole thing. Some of the actors hail from provinces of Higan, apparently, so most will be spoken in your tongue.”

 

“Do many people here speak Higan?”

 

“The contrary. They won’t mind this one time, as they are eager to please you. Besides, some see romantic parallels between Suzuran’s flight and yours.”

 

Hanamaki looked as though he had sucked on a lemon. “How so?” he forced out.

 

A large hand—larger than his own, he took notice—gently cupped his face. Matsukawa’s smile was nearer, the bittersweet smell of wine on his breath. “Two lovers found haven in Aoba Johsai. Their descendants now begin a life together here. Oh, and I waged a war for you. Can’t be more romantic than that.”

 

“Is that why they keep looking at us,” Hanamaki inquired rhetorically. He recalled their first night together when Matsukawa stroked his cheek in very much the same way he did now. His fingers had been gloved then, and his words less kind. Taking the bare hand in his own, Hanamaki raised it to his lips and kissed it on the palm. Matsukawa regarded him with a raised eyebrow. “Should I kiss you, too?”

 

“Reserve it for bed,” he replied, rather tersely for it to be a joke, and removed his hand from the other. It tingled—an insignificant but undeniable sensation. Hanamaki made a complaining noise beside him, something about acting out their roles, and went silent as the orchestra began to play.

 

 

Plays were a common pastime in his father’s court. They had several open theatres scattered about the gardens, the biggest of them being the king’s next to a magnificent fountain, and Hanamaki had one built in his name as a child. Although both the tales of the old and new were popular, this was Hanamaki’s first encounter with the legend-turned play: Suzuran had been out of fashion for some decades. He found the actress who played the princess bewitchingly beautiful, as befitting her name, though he would have liked her better if they had not tried to dye her hair pink. It came off as an odd cross between red and orange, the darker roots of her original hair already peeking through the prop crown.

 

When Suzuran and her lover met in the moonlight to discuss their elopement, it struck Hanamaki that the troupe had reproduced the Higan court remarkably well. The bright colours that the Aoba Johsai seemed to abhor; the in-fashion braids in Suzuran’s hair; and even the music he would have heard back home. For some reason, the last realisation reminded him of how direly he missed Higan and how far he was from there in the mountains. It was most likely that he would never see his family again, not Kaede nor his nurse, and certainly not his poor father.

 

The inside of his nose began to sting, and he had to concentrate on the squire-actor’s wart to keep the tears from coming. Then an arm was drawing him in, hard and homely at the same time.

 

“Are you all right?” Matsukawa whispered.

 

“‘m fine,” he replied immediately, eyes fixed on the stage. The other did not ask again but kept the arm around him.

 

Suzuran mounted her horse. The lovers raced through the woods, plaster walls painted with the brown trunks and evergreen leaves, losing the guards after them, and came to a halt when the trees thinned and opened to the stacked houses of Aoba Johsai. To this part Hanamaki was a newcomer; he watched on as the local men mistook Suzuran and her lover as spies from another clan and imprisoned them.

 

“We only wish for a home here.” Suzuran cried.

 

Yet another death impending on her love, the princess revealed the tattoo—that unmistakably Higan red spider lily wrapped around her delicate forearm. The Aoba Johsai were a generous people in this, touched profoundly by their plight, and offered them secrecy and protection.

 

Hanamaki set white-faced through the encore. He contemplated Suzuran, her love, and her decision to flee their kingdom and leave the wars behind. She had been willing. He had been willing, too, in a way. But he did not have a lover to devote his new life to, no comrade who could share his burden. Not that he wanted to entertain a parallel reality where he _did_ have a lover and conspired to elope. Aoba Johsai might have asked for one of his younger siblings then. Or pursued him till the end, going by the confidence they had in that Oracle. It was for the best, the way things played out. He sincerely believed in that but had not expected to feel this lonely.

 

“Come here.” Matsukawa pulled him into his arms. Even seated, Hanamaki was not much shorter than him, making it difficult to embrace the other without his cooperation.

 

He was completely still, one cheek pressed against Matsukawa’s chest and eyes burning from keeping them open for too long, and let the large hand stroke his hair.

 

“I want to go home,” Hanamaki spoke into the fabric, hands clutching the turquoise cloak hard until his knuckles turned white. Matsukawa said nothing.

 

 

 

* * *

 

When a knock echoed in Matsukawa’s bedchamber that night, it was not at his usual entrance. Putting his glass down, he got up and opened the passage door. He had forgotten to give lock it. It mattered nought now.

 

“Hello,” he offered to the person on the other side.

 

Hanamaki looked the most tired and dishevelled he had seen him. His nightgown was secured with crossed arms, suggesting that the young man had dressed in haste; that one of his eyes flaunted a bruise and the other puffiness did little to improve the sight.

 

“Can I sleep here tonight?” he asked, then added quickly: “or can you tell the maids that when I say I want someone in my bed, it’s not for sex.”

 

Matsukawa knew he should proceed with the latter. Oikawa would have insisted on it. But he stepped aside to let Hanamaki in and closed the passage behind him. He watched the other flop down on his bed, followed by a low groan, and joined him in a more conventional manner.

 

“Do you often invite people to your bed without sleeping with them?” he asked, pulling the blanket over both of them. “That’s usually not met with a welcome.”

 

Hanamaki threw him a dark look. “Only when I’m having trouble sleeping. Besides…,” he went silent.

 

“Besides what?”

 

"You are going to laugh at me,” said a timid voice.

 

“I always have time for that. Besides what?”

 

“You’re horrible,” said Hanamaki, but he had inched closer to Matsukawa without realising it himself. “My nurse. She used to sing me songs or do her needlework until I fell asleep.”

 

“That’s what nurses are supposed to do,” Matsukawa dismissed it, then reconsidered the matter. “How long did this sweet tradition go on for?”

 

Another pause.

 

“Maybe until a few months before I met you.”

 

He was not going to laugh. He was not, it would not be the nicest thing to do, but the thought of a full-grown Hanamaki sleeping to the almost mute movement of his nurse’s needle was rather comedic not to. And Matsukawa would have continued to do so if his husband did not pinch him.

 

“I’m sure there will be others who don’t mind a bit of cuddling,” he teased.

 

Hanamaki’s protest—“I didn’t cuddle with her! That was long past and gone after I turned fourteen”—generated a second round of laughter. With force, he tugged hard and stole Matsukawa’s share of the blanket.

 

“Oh, come now,” Matsukawa wheedled over the cocoon of the blanket. “It was a joke.”

 

It remained unmoving.

 

“I’m riding out tomorrow; you don’t want to be responsible if I catch a cold, do you?”

 

After a moment of or two, the pink-haired head surfaced above the blanket. “You’re going away? Where to?” he asked.

 

“There’s been an invasion by a small group of bandits in the northern border. I won’t be long, just making sure everything’s back in order.” Matsukawa grabbed one end of the cocoon that had become undone and dragged it towards him. When Hanamaki understood what he was trying to do, it was already done—bound inside the blanket, he found himself also trapped in Matsukawa’s arms. He wriggled, testing if the other will give, but his husband only tightened his grip on him.

 

“Well, how long is that?”

 

“A couple of weeks. Will you miss me?”

 

As stupid as it felt, Hanamaki thought he might. His days with Matsukawa had been dynamic, to say the least, stable in one moment and breaking apart in another, but an exchange of blows like yesterday’s was better than weeks of nothing. Part of him wanted to tell him that, convince him somehow not to leave him, and yet… Hanamaki knew he could never bring himself to do so.

 

“I suppose I will, you are always so charming.” Managing to free an arm, he stroked Matsukawa’s cheek, fingers dancing lightly along the scar. The other tensed at the touch, the grey eyes watching him back with alarm in them. Hanamaki shifted so that he was now fully facing the man and started nibbling at his lower lip. “Bring me a souvenir, will you?”

 

This was a small piece of truth he could handle. Use it as a weapon, even. He tried not to derive too much pleasure from seeing Matsukawa frozen like this, especially if that meant he was treading on thin ice, but this rare taste of power was more addictive than he could have imagined.

 

Matsukawa startled as if awoken from a spell.

 

“A circlet for your lovely hair, perhaps,” he whispered before drawing Hanamaki’s lips into a full kiss.

 

It was an aggressive one, each fighting for dominance. Hanamaki’s fingers dug into his shoulders, leaving red marks behind them. He gasped when Matsukawa's teeth sank in his.

 

Hanamaki propped himself up, panting. The air was thick and heavy. Hands planted on Matsukawa's chest, he began grinding into whatever was beneath him—until he realised where the hardness was coming room. Matsukawa was looking up at him, himself breathing hard. One of his hands had found its way under the nightgown, hitching the fabric up Hanamaki's hips and revealing the curves where the thighs swelled into the buttocks and then flattened into the waist. Slowly, his own hands shaking with excitement, Hanamaki grabbed Matsukawa's free hand and took a finger in his mouth. It may have been his imagination, but he thought he heard Matsukawa moan.

 

“Well,” he whispered. “You did ask for that kiss in bed.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

It was a gloomy morning. A mass of clouds stretched across the sky for miles, punctuated with light here and there, but otherwise potent with rain. They walked out the last remaining corridor into the courtyard, where a small army of men was waiting for them.

 

“You don’t have to go out there yourself, you know,” Oikawa was saying. Matsukawa gave a nonchalant shrug and received his sword from his friend without a word.

 

“Does he usually go, though?” Hanamaki asked beside him. He had seen his husband dressed for battle before when they were still passing through Higan, but this was the first time seeing him in full armour. From what he had been told, one would not have expected this to be an occasion for the dressing up.

 

“He’s obsessed with work,” the brown-haired man said in a jocose manner. “Even though the Council has practically given him the day off, considering it’s your honeymoon and all.”

 

Matsukawa loured at him before addressing Hanamaki.

 

“The people on the border would feel more secure if the capital checked on them.”

 

“You could send me,” Oikawa pouted. “or better still, take me with you. It’s unfair of you to have all that fun alone."

 

“You,” he said with an emphasis, “need to be charge in my absence. And I’m taking your advice, Tooru, so don’t complain.”

 

That curiously quelled Oikawa, who nodded seriously. Hanamaki looked between the two of them, waiting, but it was something neither was willing or considered appropriate to enlighten him of.

 

Accepting the helmet from a squire boy, the last bit of his gear, Matsukawa turned to his consort.

 

“Don’t cause any trouble while I’m gone,” he whispered.

 

“I was thinking an afternoon tea in your harem,” Hanamaki mumbled back. 

 

Chuckling, he hooked a finger under his chin and brought them closer. The green eyes were dark and opaque today, the sun’s rays locked behind the clouds, and met his gaze with what Matsukawa interpreted to be a fondness of sort.

 

“Good luck finding it,” he lowered his head. “Now, kiss me.”

 

They both knew the kiss was to be brief, a sign of political affection and did not realise it developing into something more. Hanamaki had both hands in his curls, rubbing circles into the scalp, and Matsukawa tightened the embrace with his armoured arm. A cheer initially echoed throughout the courtyard, only to die out as quickly as it had started when it became apparent that the sight was turning longer and more intimate—an exchange of passion that ought to have stayed behind the bedroom doors. 

 

Takahiro thought about the previous night, sprawled half undressed on the bed with a pair of hot lips pursuing parts of his body in a way he had not imagined possible. He thought about Matsukawa over him, the bruising grasp of their first meeting replaced with tender caresses and soft encouragements. It had not taken long, releasing in each other’s hands, before sleep visited them. Now parting his lips, Takahiro meekly wished that they had not left the bed in such haste.

 

“Have a safe journey,” he said instead.

 

Matsukawa nodded. To their side, Oikawa was looking at them with something that resembled horror, which he chose to ignore. As he did of most of his men, who gawked as if their General had grown a second head. Even his horse seemed to regard him funny and took a few steps back when he got closer.

 

“Shh, good boy,” he soothed, stroking its gentle face. Once mounted, he gave a short speech to his men, a brief of their mission, and signalled for the horns to be blown. The gates opened ahead.

 

 

 

“Are you sure you want to go to the north?” Yuda asked when they were outside the castle walls. The Council had been cautious about dispatching the man as his family had a history of conflict in the region, but Matsukawa valued his knowledge of the area and enthusiasm, however tiring it could be at times.

 

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked back.

 

“Your hubby back there,” Yuda jerked his head in the direction of the castle. “seemed like he was sorry to see you outside bed. And so did you.”

 

“Yuda.”

 

“It’s all right, ‘s nothing to be ashamed of. You were never good at expressing yourself, but I’m glad you moved on.”

 

“Yuda.”

 

“Guess there’s a first for everything, right? Sawauchi once said he worried if you were frigid, or maybe you just didn’t have want, but look where you are now!”

 

“Good god,” Matsukawa fought off the urge to smack his own forehead. Why his friends were invariably so intrusive, he would never know. And he would never be able to drive them away. “Is that what you have been saying behind my back? What happened to my harem?" 

 

His friend shrugged. “The Council likes to pretend it doesn’t exist, so minus that you’ve never been laid in your life." 

 

He was hardly going to bring up Jun, was he? Matsukawa merely glowered at him, wrecking his brain for a love affair gone wrong on Yuda’s part.

 

“What I mean to say is,” the shorter man was saying in the meanwhile. “that it’s nice to see you settled. You haven’t been this… relaxed in the past few years.”

 

“Think what you will, but we are not that,” he murmured. “I haven’t touched him beyond the sealing of our marriage.”

 

Seeing the way Yuda’s eyes widened as if to pop, Matsukawa belatedly regretted not bringing either Sawauchi and Shidou, who had the knack for reining in his imagination.

 

“No way!” he cried. “What was that about back there, then? You were practically fucking him with clothes on.”

 

If he had to be absolutely truthful, then yes, more had happened between Hanamaki and him last night—only it was an incident he was willing to forget. Otherwise he was entering dangerous territory, that bit he could foresee without Oikawa nagging at him. He also knew the kiss had not helped and was glad to be away from Hanamaki, even for a few weeks.

 

“It will never be what you think,” he stated firmly, letting himself hear his voice. “He’s a fine man, Yuda, but I don’t need him to be whatever you think I should be. Consider him a friend, if you want, and that will be sufficient.”

 

Yuda was silent for a moment. When he spoke again to offer his understanding, there was a hint of disapproval in his voice but the message had been delivered.

 

They rode on, the evergreens of the capital giving way to the colourful maple and gingko trees. It was a week of riding till the northernmost border; Matsukawa wound his cloak about his body as the sun fell and the cold set in.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does it read better if there's no space in between paragraphs? Let me know if you have a preference; I'm trying to figure out the optimal way for reading on this site :'<


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